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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 





i 



WASTE NOT, WANT NOT 
STORIES 

I ^ ^ 

RETOLD BY 

CLIFTON JOHNSON 



NEW YORK . CINCINNATI . CHICAGO 

AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

NOV 22 1905 

Copyricht Entry 

3 / 9 4 

CLASS XXc. No. 

/ 3 2 9 yo 

COPY B. 


Copyright, 1905, by 
CLIFTON JOHNSON. 

Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London. 


WASTE not, want NOT STORIES. 

W. P. I 


INTRODUCTION 


The stories in this volume are from Miss Edgeworth’s 
The Parents' Assistant, one of the most famous as well 
as most charming of old-time children’s books. But 
though The Parents' Assistant is recognized as a child- 
hood classic, it is comparatively little read now, — and no 
wonder with such a title. Judging by that, a person who 
did not know the book would get the impression that it 
contained good advice for fathers and mothers in a series 
of dull essays. You would not suspect it to be the 
volume of bright, entertaining stories which it really is. 

Henc6 it seems well worth while to make this collec- 
tion of the best of the stories and put them in a form to 
attract the youthful reader. The title I have chosen indi- 
cates their character. They are all stories with a purpose. 
They teach thrift and honesty, industry and manliness. 
We see in them that people feel cheerful and happy when 
they are employed, and we find in them antidotes for 
pride, for ill humor, and hastiness of temper, and for the 
tendency to admire and imitate the fashions of the time 
being. The stories are dramatic, and arouse hope, fear, 
and curiosity ; there is always brisk conversation and the 
sentiment is admirable. 

Probably nothing better of the sort has ever been writ- 
ten. However, the modern child in dipping into The 
Parents' Assistant would doubtless be somewhat deterred 
by the superabundance of moralizing which it was the 

3 


4 


habit of the period when the book was written to include 
in children’s stories. This preachiness has largely been 
cut out in editing; for it hurts the interest, and the inci- 
dents of the tales point their own morals and do not need 
any reenforcement I have also cut out or changed local 
references and English words and expressions not easily 
understood by American children. Otherwise I have 
retained as nearly as possible the original text. 

The author of these stories was born January i, 1767, 
near Oxford in England. At the age of eight she was 
sent to a boarding school in Derby, and later she attended 
a more fashionable school in London, where she went 
through the course of tortures customary at this period to 
improve the figure and carriage. The treatment included 
the wearing of backboards and iron collars ; and the 
attempt was made to increase her height by swinging her 
by the neck. The swinging was supposed to draw out 
the muscles, but it failed to be effective, and she con- 
tinued very small all her life. 

She was remembered by her companions at both schools 
for her entertaining stories. These were told at bedtime, 
and she learned to know what tale was most successful by 
the wakefulness it caused. Some of her narrations were 
taken from memory ; for while her friends played she was 
reading books ; but many were original. 

Mr. Edgeworth had an estate in Ireland, and when 
Maria was fifteen he removed thither with his family. 
There he had determined to dwell permanently, improv- 
ing his estate, educating his children, and helping the 
people to better their condition. He had a very large 
family, and a good deal of the care of the younger Edge- 
worths fell to Maria; but children were never a burden 


5 


to her. Rather, they furnished entertainment and stimu- 
lus, and she was always happy in their companionship. 
She often wrote stories for the amusement of the little 
ones of the household, and after reading a story aloud to 
them, if the reception was favorable, she copied it. 

The stories were begun with no idea of publication, but 
in 1 796 they were gathered into a printed volume. This 
was The Parents' Assistant, and, in spite of the for- 
midable title, the charm of the stories won for the book 
an immediate success. The narratives are such genuine 
bits of life that they have permanent interest. To be 
sure, the little heroes and heroines are very, very good, 
and few real children would be able to exercise such self- 
control and cheerful generosity. Then, too, there is always 
some benevolent person who appears in the nick of time 
to distribute rewards or point a moral. But these things 
do not spoil the stories, and one even feels a certain satis- 
faction in seeing poetic justice done so unerringly to all 
concerned. 

Miss Edgeworth was a lover of order. She was fastidi- 
ously neat in dress, methodical in her habits, and had rare 
powers of concentration and an uncommonly retentive 
memory. Her desk was in the large sitting room, where 
the family, which numbered fifteen or twenty, and the 
guests, who were often many, were accustomed to gather. 
The room was also the library and the meeting place of 
business visitors. But here she wrote her books in the 
midst of conversation and the noise of her young broth- 
ers and sisters; and yet she was noted for her perfect 
manuscripts. 

She was an early riser, and in summer usually came 
into the breakfast room from a walk in the open air with 


6 


her hands full of flowers. After breakfast she wrote till 
luncheon time, and later occupied herself with her needle, 
went for a ride, and attended to social and other duties. 
Warmth of heart and tenderness were notable among her 
attributes, and tales of distress or of mirth found a quick 
response in tears and smiles. She was plain of counte- 
nance and unpretending in her whole appearance; but 
those who conversed with her forgot these things by- 
reason of the sweetness of spirit and genius which lighted 
and gave expression to her features. Her movements 
were active and alert, and she was always ready to take 
steps for others. She enjoyed little adventures heartily, 
and an indomitable youthfulness was characteristic of her 
even to the age of fourscore. 

Miss Edgeworth was loved and respected in all the 
relations of life, and when she died. May 21, 1849, 
death was mourned as a public loss on both sides of the 
Atlantic. 


LIST OF STORIES 


Waste Not, Want Not . 



• 

• 

• 

• 

PAGE 

9 

Tarlton .... 



• 

• 

• 

♦ 

. 46 

The Basket-woman . 



• 

• 

• 

• 

• 74 

The White Pigeon . 



• 

• 

• 

• 

• 97 

Forgive and Forget 



• 

• 

• 

• 

. 112 

The False Key 



• 

• 

• 

• 

. 134 

The Birthday Present . 



• 

• 

• 

• 

. 170 

Lazy Lawrence 



• 

• 

• 

• 

. 189 

The Orphans . 




• 

• 

• 

. 229 


7 



WASTE NOT, WANT NOT, STORIES 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT 

Mr. Gresham, a merchant who had accumulated 
a considerable fortune, retired from business and 
built a house near the town of Clifton in the west 
of England, and there he lived with his little 
daughter Patty. He was fond of children, and 
as he had no sons he determined to adopt one. 
The choice lay between two nephews, and he invited 
both of them to his house that he might have a 
chance to judge of their dispositions and of the 
habits they had acquired. 

Hal and Benjamin, Mr. Gresham’s nephews, were 
about ten years old. They had been educated very 
differently. Hal was the son of a gentleman who 
spent rather more than he could afford ; and the 
boy had learned from the example of the servants 
in his father’s family to waste more of everything 
than he used. He had unfortunately got the notion 


9 


10 


that extravagance was the sign of a generous nature, 
and economy of an avaricious one. 

Benjamin, on the contrary, had been taught 
habits of care and foresight. His father had but a 
very small fortune, and was anxious that his son 
should early learn that economy insures independ- 
ence. 

The morning after the two boys arrived at their 
uncle’s, they were eager to see all the rooms in the 
house. Mr. Gresham showed them through his 
dwelling until, last of all, they came to the kitchen. 

“ Oh, what an excellent motto ! ” exclaimed Ben 
when he read the following words which were 
printed in large letters over the chimney-piece : — 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT 

“Waste not, want not! ” repeated his cousin Hal 
in rather a contemptuous tone. “ I think it looks 
stingy.” 

Just then Mr. Gresham was called away, and 
when he returned, his nephews were in the hall. 
“ Boys,” said he, handing them each a bundle, “ will 
you unpack these two parcels for me } ” 

Then he left the boys and went into the parlor. 
The two parcels were exactly alike, both of them 



well tied up with cord. Ben took his bundle to a 
table, and began carefully to examine the knots 
and then to untie them. Hal stood still, exactly on 
the spot where the bundle was put into his hands, 
and tried, first at 
one corner and 
then at another, 
to pull the string 
off by force» 

“ I wish people 
wouldn’t tie up 
their parcels so 
tight, as if they 
were never to be undone,” cried he, as he tugged at 
the cord ; and he pulled the knots closer instead of 
loosening them. “ Ben ! Why, how did you get 
yours undone ? I wish this string would come 
off. I must cut it.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” said Ben, who had now undone the 
last knot of his parcel, and who drew out the length 
of string with exultation. “ Don’t cut it, Hal. Look 
what a nice cord this is, and yours is the same. It 
would be a pity to cut it.” 

“ Pooh ! ” Hal responded. *•“ What signifies a bit of 
packthread ? ” 


Ben and Hal untying the parcels 


12 


“ It is whipcord,” said Ben. 

“Well, whipcord! What signifies a bit of whip- 
cord? You can get twice as much whipcord as 
that for twopence ; and who cares for twopence ? 
Not I, for one! So here goes!” cried Hal, taking 
out his knife ; and he cut the cord in several places. 

“ Lads, have you undone the packages for me ? ” 
asked Mr. Gresham, stepping into the hall as he 
spoke. 

“Yes, sir, here’s mine,” replied Hal; and he 
dragged off the cut and entangled string. 

“And here’s my parcel, and here’s the string,” 
said Ben. 

“You may keep the string for your trouble,” said 
Mr. Gresham. 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Ben. 

“And you, Hal,” continued Mr. Gresham, “you 
may keep your string, too, if it will be of any use to 
you.” 

“ It will be of no use to me, thank you, sir,” said 
Hal. 

“No, I am afraid not, if this be it,” remarked his 
uncle, taking up Hal’s jagged and knotted cord. 

A few days afterward Mr. Gresham gave to each 
of his nephews a new top. “ But how’s this ? ” said 


13 


Hal. “ These tops have no strings to spin them 
with. What shall we do for strings ? ” 

“ I have a string that will do very well for mine,” 
said Ben ; and he pulled out of his pocket the fine 
long string which had tied up the bundle. With 
this he made his top spin admirably. 

“Oh, how I wish I had a string!” said Hal. 
“ What shall I do for a string ? I’ll tell you — I can 
use the string that goes round my hat.” 

“ But then,” said Ben, “ what will you do for a 
hatband.?” 

“ ni manage to get along without one,” replied 
Hal ; and he took the string off from his hat for his 
top. It soon was worn out, and he threw it away. 

Some time after this a lady, who was intimately 
acquainted with Hal’s mother, arrived at Clifton. 
She had been informed that Hal was at Mr. 
Gresham’s ; and her sons, who were friends of his, 
came to see him, and invited him to spend the next 
day with them. 

Hal joyfully accepted the invitation ; for Lady 
Diana Sweepstake was a very fine lady, and her 
two sons intended to be very great gentlemen. Hal 
was in a prodigious hurry when the young Sweep- 
stakes knocked at his uncle’s door the next day ; 


14 


but just as he got to the foot of the hall stairs, little 
Patty called after him from the top of the stairs and 
told him he had dropped his handkerchief. 

“ Pick it up and bring it to me, quick, can’t you, 
child } ” cried Hal. “ Lady Di’s sons are waiting 
for me.” 

Little Patty did not know anything about Lady 
Di’s sons. However, she was very good-natured, 
and she saw that her cousin Hal was for some 
reason or other in a desperate hurry. So she ran 
downstairs as fast as she possibly could toward the 
place where the handkerchief lay ; but, alas ! before 
she reached the handkerchief, she fell and rolled 
down the whole flight of stairs, and when her fall 
was at last stopped she did not rise, and lay as if 
she were in great pain. 

“Where are you hurt, my love?” said Mr. 
Gresham, who came instantly on hearing the noise 
of some one falling downstairs. “ Where are you 
hurt, my dear?” 

“ Here, papa,” said the little girl, touching her 
ankle ; “ but not much,” added she, trying to get 
up, “only it hurts me when I move.” 

“ Don’t move, then,” said her father, “ Pll carry 
you ; ” and he took her up in his arms. 


15 


“ My shoe — I’ve lost one of my shoes,” said she. 

Ben looked for it on the stairs, and he found it 
sticking in a loop of whipcord which was caught 
round one of the banisters. When he took up 
this cord he saw it was the very same jagged, 
entangled piece Hal had pulled off from his parcel. 
Hal had diverted himself running up and down 
stairs, whipping the banisters with it, as he thought 
he could make no better use of it ; and with his 
customary carelessness he at last left it hanging 
just where he happened to throw it when the 
dinner bell rang. Poor Patty’s ankle was terribly 
sprained, and Hal reproached himself for his folly, 
and would have 
reproached himself 
longer, perhaps, if 
Lady Di Sweep- 
stake’s sons had 
not hurried him 
away. 

In the evening, 

^ 11, Ben and Patty play cat's cradle 

Patty could not 

run about as usual, but sat on the sofa; and she 
said that she did not feel the pain of her ankle as 
much while Ben was so good as to play with her. 



i6 

“ That’s right, Ben,” said his uncle, as the boy 
produced his whipcord to amuse Patty with a 
game at her favorite cat’s cradle. 

Hal, when he returned in the evening, and saw 
Ben playing with his little cousin, could not help 
smiling contemptuously. In a heedless manner he 
made some inquiries after Patty’s sprained ankle, 
and then he hastened to tell all the news he had 
heard at Lady Diana Sweepstake’s, — news which 
he thought would make him appear a person of 
vast importance. 

“Do you know, uncle — do you know, Ben,” 
said he, “there’s to be the most famous doings 
that ever were heard of on the Downs here, the 
first day of next month, which will be in a fort- 
night. I wish the fortnight were over. I shall 
think of nothing else till that happy day comes ! ” 

Mr. Gresham inquired why the first of Sep- 
tember was to be so much happier than any other 
day in the year. 

“ Oh,” replied Hal, “ Lady Diana Sweepstake, 
you know, is a famous rider and archer and all 
that.” 

“Very likely,” said Mr. Gresham; “but what 
then } ” 


17 


“Dear uncle,” cried Hal, “there’s to be a race 
on the Downs the first of September, and after 
the race there’s to be an archery meeting for the 
ladies, and Lady Diana Sweepstake is to be one 
of them. After the ladies have done shooting — 
now, Ben, comes the best part of it — we boys are 
to have our turn, and Lady Di is to give a prize 
of a very handsome bow and arrow to the best 
marksman among us. I’ve been practicing already, 
and to-morrow I’ll show you the famous bow and 
arrows that Lady Diana has given me, as soon as 
they come home. But perhaps,” added he, with a 
scornful laugh, “you like a cat’s cradle better than 
a bow and arrows.” 

Ben made no reply ; but the next day, when the 
new bow and arrows came, he convinced Hal that 
he knew how to use them very well. 

“ You seem to be a good marksman, Ben,” said 
his uncle. “ I’ll give you a bow and arrows, and 
if you practice, you may make yourself an archer 
before the first of September.” 

“ Oh, sir,” interrupted Hal, “ if you mean that 
Ben should try for the prize, he must have a 
uniform.” 

“ Why must he } ” asked Mr. Gresham. 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 2 


i8 

“ Because everybody has one, — I mean every- 
body that’s anybody ; and it’s settled all about it 
except the buttons. The young Sweepstakes are 
to get theirs done first for patterns. They are 
to be white, faced with green; and I shall write 
mamma to-night about mine. If she makes no ob- 
jection, which I know she won’t, because she never 
thinks much about expense, then I shall bespeak 
my uniform, and get it made by the same tailor that 
makes for Lady Diana and the young Sweepstakes.” 

“ Mercy on us ! ” said Mr. Gresham. “ I don’t 
pretend to understand these things, but we will 
inquire into the case, Ben ; and if a uniform is 
necessary, or if you think it necessary — why. I’ll 
give you one ; and I will give Hal a uniform, too, 
on the same conditions.” 

“Will you, indeed exclaimed Hal. “Well, 
that’s the last thing in the world I would have 
expected. I supposed you’d think it extravagant 
to have a coat on purpose only for one day.” 

“ Put on your hats, boys,” said Mr. Gresham, 
“and come with me. I know a gentleman whose 
sons are to be at this archery meeting, and we will 
inquire into all the particulars from him. After- 
ward we shall have time to walk to Bristol, and 


19 


we will choose the cloth for the uniforms there, if 
they are necessary.” 

“ I cannot tell what to make of all he says,” 
whispered Hal, as he reached for his hat. “ Do 
you think, Ben, he means to give us these uniforms, 
or not ? ” 

“ I think,” said Ben, “ that he means to give them 
to us if they are necessary, or, as he said, if we 
think they are necessary.” 

The gentleman on whom Mr. Gresham called 
had three sons, who were all to be at the archery 
meeting; and they unanimously declared that they 
had never thought of buying uniforms for the occa- 
sion, and that, among their acquaintances, they 
knew of but two boys whose parents intended to be 
at such an expense. Hal stood amazed. 

“ Such are the varieties of opinion on all the 
affairs of life,” said Mr. Gresham, looking at his 
nephews. “ The only thing that can be done in 
these cases, my dear boys, is to judge for yourselves 
which opinions and which people are the most 
reasonable.” 

Hal’s thoughts were, however, at present, too full 
of the uniform to allow his judgment to act with 
perfect impartiality. As they walked toward Bristol, 


20 


after their visit was over, he continued to repeat 
nearly the same arguments which he had formerly 
used respecting the uniform, until, in passing a 
pastry cook’s shop, his senses were assailed by the 
delicious odor and tempting sight of certain cakes 
and jellies. “ Oh, uncle,” said he, “ I must buy 
some of those good things.” 

His uncle, who was desirous to see his nephews 
act without restraint that he might judge their 
characters, bade him do as he pleased. 

“Come, Ben,” cried Hal, “you get something, 
too, if you’ve any halfpence in your pocket.” 

“ I’m not hungry,” said Ben. 

“ I suppose that means you’ve no halfpence,” 
responded Hal, laughing. 

Contrary to his cousin’s surmise, Ben happened 
to have twopence in his pocket. At the very 
moment Hal stepped into the pastry cook’s shop 
a poor man with a wooden leg, who swept the 
corner at this spot, held out his hat to Ben; and 
Ben, after glancing at the petitioner’s well-worn 
broom, instantly produced his twopence. “ I wish 
I had more for you, my good man,” said he. 

Hal came out of the confectioner’s shop with a 
hatful of cakes in his hands. A dog was sitting on 


21 


the step before the door, and he looked up at Hal 
with wistful, begging eyes. Hal threw a whole 
queen cake to the 
dog, who swal- 
lowed it at a 
single mouthful. 

“There goes 
twopence in the 
form of a queen 
cake,” said Mr. 

Gresham. 

Hal ate and 
ate as he walked 

Ben gives twopence to the sweeper 

along, till at last 

he stopped and said, “ This bun tastes so bad after 
the queen cakes, I can’t bear it,” and he was going 
to fling it into the road. 

“ Oh, it’s a pity to waste that good bun,” said 
Ben. “ Give it to me, rather than throw it away.” 

“ Why, I thought you were not hungry,” was 
Hal’s response. 

“ True,” answered Ben, “ I am not hungry now; 
but that is no reason why I should never be 
hungry.” 

“ Well, there is the bun for you,” said Hal. “ Take 



22 


it, for it has made me sick, and I don’t care what 
becomes of it.” 

Ben folded his cousin’s bun in a piece of paper 
and put it into his pocket. 

“ I’m beginning to be exceedingly tired, besides 
feeling sick,” Hal declared. “ Hadn’t we better take 
a coach instead of walking all the way to Bristol ? ” 

“ For a stout archer, you are more easily tired 
than one might have expected,” said Mr. Gresham. 
“ However, let us take a coach, for Ben wants me 
to show him the cathedral ; and I believe I would 
find it rather too much to walk so far.” 

“ Are we going to Bristol to visit the cathedral ? ” 
said Hal, after he had been seated in the coach 
about a quarter of an hour and had somewhat 
recovered from his sickness. “ I thought we came 
to see about the uniforms.” 

“ But we need not make a whole morning’s work, 
need we, of looking at a piece of cloth ? ” said Mr. 
Gresham. “ Cannot we see that and a cathedral 
both in one morning ? ” 

They went first to the cathedral. Ben looked 
at the large stained figures in the Gothic window, 
and he observed their colored shadows on the floor 
and walls. Mr. Gresham, who perceived that he 


23 


was eager on all subjects to gain information, took 
this opportunity of telling him several things about 
the art of making such windows, which Hal thought 
extremely tiresome. 

“Come, come! We shall be late,” said Hal. 
“ Surely, you’ve looked long enough, Ben, at this 
blue and red window.” 

“ Hark I ” cried Ben. “ Did you hear that noise ? ” 

They all listened, and they heard a bird singing 
in the cathedral. “ It’s our old robin, sir,” said 
the lad who had opened the cathedral door for 
them. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Gresham, “there is the bird, 
boys, — look, — perched on the organ. It often 
sits there and sings while the organ is playing.” 

“ And it has lived here these many, many years,” 
continued the lad who showed the cathedral. “ It 
is so tame that if I had a bit of bread it would 
come down and feed from my hand.” 

“ I’ve a bun I ” exclaimed Ben, joyfully producing 
the bun which Hal an hour before would have 
thrown away. “ Pray, let us see the robin eat out 
of your hand.” 

The lad crumbled the bun and called to the 
robin, which fluttered and chirped, and seemed re- 


24 


joiced at the sight of the bread; yet it did not 
come down from the pinnacle on the organ. 

“ It is afraid of us,” said Ben. “ It is not used to 
eating before strangers, I suppose.” 

“ Ah, no, sir, that is not the thing,” replied the 
lad with a deep sigh. “ Time was it would have 
come to me at my first call, before ever so many 
fine folks, and eaten its crumbs out of my hand; 
but it does not know me now, sir, since my acci- 
dent, because of this great black patch.” 

The lad put his hand to his right eye, which was 
covered with a huge black patch. Ben asked what 
accident he meant ; and the lad told him that a few 
weeks previous he had lost the sight of his eye, by 
the blow of a stone, which struck him as he was 
passing near a ledge of rocks where some work- 
men were blasting. “ I don’t mind so much for 
myself, sir,” said the lad ; “ but I can’t work so well 
now for my old mother; and I’ve four little brothers 
and sisters not able yet to get their own livelihood, 
though they are as willing as willing can be.” 

“ Where does your mother live } ” asked Mr. 
Gresham. 

“ Hard by, sir, close to the cathedral,” responded 
the lad. “It was she who always had the showing 


25 


of the cathedral to strangers till she lost the use of 
her limbs.” 

Ben suggested that they should call at the lad’s 
house, and his uncle agreed. It was rather a hovel 
than a house ; but, poor as it was, it was as neat as 
misery could make it. The old woman was sitting 
up in her wretched bed winding worsted. Four 
pale, ill-clothed children were all busy sorting rags 
for the paper maker. 

“ What a horrid place it is ! ” said Hal. “ I did 
not know there were such shocking places in the 
world. I’ve often seen terrible looking tumble- 
down houses as I was going through the town in 
mamma’s carriage, but I did not know who lived 
in them, and I never saw the inside of any of them. 
It is very dreadful, indeed, to think that people are 
forced to live in this way. I wish mamma would 
send me some more pocket money, that I might do 
something for them. I had half a crown ; but,” con- 
tinued he, feeling in his pockets, “ I spent the last 
shilling of it this morning for those cakes that made 
me sick. I wish I had my shilling now. I’d give 
it to these poor people.” 

Hal, after he was again seated in the coach and 
had rattled through the busy streets of Bristol for 


26 


a few minutes, quite forgot the spectacle of poverty 
which he had seen, and the gay shops wholly occu- 
pied his imagination. “ Now for our uniforms ! ” 
cried he, as he jumped eagerly out of the coach, when 
his uncle stopped at the woolen draper’s door. 

“Uncle,” said Ben, as Mr. Gresham was about 
to get out of the carriage, “ I don’t think a uniform 
is at all necessary for me. I’m very much obliged to 
you, but I would rather not have one.” 

“ Well, we will see about it after we are in the 
shop,” said Mr. Gresham. “ Perhaps the sight of 
the beautiful green and white cloth may tempt you 
to change your mind.” 

The green cloth and the white cloth were pro- 
duced, to Hal’s infinite satisfaction. His uncle took 
up a pen and calculated for a few minutes. Then 
he showed to his nephews the back of the letter on 
which he had been writing, and said, “ By these 
figures I find I could, for a little more than half the 
money your uniforms would cost, purchase for each 
of you boys a warm greatcoat, which I have a notion 
you will want this winter.” 

“ Oh, sir,” said Hal, “ but it is not winter yet ! 
It is not cold weather yet ! We shan’t want great- 
coats yet!” 


27 

“ Don’t you remember how cold we were, Hal, 
the day before yesterday, in that sharp wind, when 
we were flying our kites on the Downs ? ” said 
Ben. “And winter will come, though it is not come 
yet. I am sure I would like to have a good warm 
greatcoat very much.” 

Mr. Gresham took six guineas out of his purse, 
and he placed three of them before Hal, and three 
before Ben. “ Young gentlemen,” said he, “ I 
believe your uniforms would come to about three 
guineas apiece. Now I will lay out this money 
for you just as you please. Hal, what say 
you ? ” 

“ Why, sir,” Hal replied, “ a greatcoat is a good 
thing, to be sure ; and there would be some money 
to spare after paying for it, would there not ? ” 

“Yes, my dear; five-and-twenty shillings,” said 
Mr. Gresham. 

“ Five-and-twenty shillings,” repeated Hal ; “ I 
could buy and do a great many things with five- 
and-twenty shillings ; but then, I must go without 
the uniform if I have the greatcoat ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said his uncle. 

“Ah, uncle,” said Hal, sighing, “if you would 
not be displeased, I choose the uniform.” 


28 


“ I want you to choose whatever you like best,” 
responded Mr. Gresham. 

“Well, then, thank you, sir,” said Hal, “I think 
I had better have the uniform. As to the great- 
coat, perhaps between this time and the very cold 
weather, which we may not have till Christmas, 
papa will get one for me.” 

Mr. Gresham made no reply; but he immediately 
bought the cloth of a uniform for Hal, and desired 
that it should be sent to Lady Diana Sweepstake’s 
sons’ tailor to be made up. Hal’s happiness was 
now complete. 

“ And how am I to lay out the three guineas for 
you, Ben ? ” said Mr. Gresham. “ What do you 
wish for first } ” 

“ A greatcoat, uncle, if you please,” said Ben. 

Mr. Gresham bought the coat ; and after it was 
paid for, five-and-twenty shillings of Ben’s three 
guineas remained. “ What next, my boy ? ” in- 
quired his uncle. “ How shall I dispose of these 
twenty-five shillings for you ? ” 

“In clothes, uncle, for that poor boy who has the 
great black patch on his eye,” was Ben’s answer. 

So the balance of Ben’s money was expended in 
getting a coat for the poor lad they had met at the 


29 


cathedral. “ Now jump into the coach, boys,” said 
Mr. Gresham, “ and let’s be off for home. We shall 
be late. I’m afraid,” continued he, as the coach 
drove on ; “ but I must let you stop, Ben, with your 
goods, at the home of the poor cathedral lad.” 

When they came to the house, Mr. Gresham 
opened the coach door, and Ben jumped out with 
his parcel under his arm. “ Stay, stay ! you must 
take me with you,” said his uncle. “ I like to see 
people made happy as well as you do.” 

“ So do I, too,” said Hal. “ Let me come with 
you ; ” and when he saw the look of delight and 
gratitude with which the poor boy received the 
coat Ben brought, and when he heard the mother 
and children thank him, Hal said: “I almost wish 
my uniform had not gone to the tailor’s. Then I 
would have had money to spend for these people, 
just as Ben did.” 

On his return home, however, the sight of the 
“ famous ” bow and arrows, which Lady Diana 
Sweepstake had sent him, recalled to his imagina- 
tion all the joys of his green and white uniform ; 
and he no longer wished that it had not been 
sent to the tailor’s. 

“ Cousin Hal,” said little Patty, “ I don’t under- 


30 


stand why you call your bow a famous bow. You 
say famous very often, and I don’t know exactly 


what it means. I 
remember you 
said there were to 
be famous doings 
the first of Sep- 
tember on the 
Downs, and you 
talk a great deal 
about your famous 



Hal and Patty 


uniform. What does famous mean ? ” 

“ Oh, why, famous means — ” replied Hal, hesi- 
tatingly. “ Don’t you know what famous means } 
It means — it is a word that people say — it is the 
fashion to say it — it means — it means famous.” 

Patty laughed and said, “ That does not explain 
it to me.” 

“ No,” said Hal, “ nor can it be explained. If you 
don’t understand the meaning, it’s not my fault. 
There are to be famous doings on the Downs the 
first of September, — that is, grand, fine. But what 
is the use of talking any longer, Patty, about the 
matter Give me my bow, for I must go and 
practice.” 


31 


Ben accompanied Hal with a bow and three 
arrows his uncle had given to him ; and every day 
the two boys went out on the Downs and practiced 
shooting. They presently became expert marks- 
men, and they were so exactly matched in point of 
dexterity that it was scarcely possible to decide 
which \vas superior. 

The long-expected first of September at length 
arrived. “ What sort of a day is it } ” was the first 
question that was asked by Hal and Ben the 
moment that they wakened. 

The sun shone bright, but there was a sharp and 
high wind. “ Ha ! ” said Ben, “ I shall be glad of 
my good greatcoat to-day ; for I’ve a notion it will 
be rather cold on the Downs, especially when we 
are standing still, as we must, while all the people 
are shooting.” 

“ Oh, never mind ! I don’t think I shall feel 
cold,” said Hal, as he put on his new green and 
white uniform; and he viewed himself with much 
complacency. 

“ Good morning to you, uncle ; how do you do ? ” 
said he, in a voice of exultation, when he entered the 
breakfast room. 

His “ How do you do.^^ ” seemed to mean, “ How 


32 


do you like me in my uniform?” and Mr. Gresham’s 
cool, “ Very well, I thank you, Hal,” disappointed 
him, as it seemed only to say, “ Your uniform makes 
no difference in my opinion of you.” 

Even little Patty went on eating her breakfast 
much as usual. “ Papa,” she said, “ my ankle is en- 
tirely well, and Pm glad of that, or else I would 
not be able to walk so far as the Downs. How 
good you were to me, Ben, the day I got this 
sprain ! Oh, that puts me in mind — here are your 
gloves which I asked you that night to let me mend. 
Pve been a great while about them ; but are they 
not very neatly mended ? ” 

“ They are very well done, I think,” replied Ben, 
drawing them on ; “ and I am much obliged to you. 
I was just wishing I had a pair of gloves to keep 
my fingers warm to-day, for I can never shoot well 
when my hands are cold. Look, Hal — you know 
how ragged these gloves were. You said they were 
good for nothing but to throw away. Now there’s 
not a hole in them,” said he, spreading his fingers. 

“ Is it not extraordinary,” remarked Hal to him- 
self, “ that they should go on so long talking about 
an old pair of gloves, without saying scarcely a 
word about my new uniform ? Well, the young 


33 


Sweepstakes and Lady Diana will talk enough 
about it. That’s one comfort. Is it time to think 
of setting out, sir > ” said Hal to his uncle. “ The 
company is to meet at twelve, and the race is to 
begin at one, and Lady Diana’s horses, I know, were 
ordered to be at her door at ten.” 

Mr. Stephen, the butler, here interrupted by say- 
ing to Mr. Gresham : “ There’s a poor lad below, sir, 
with a great black patch on his right eye, who is 
come from Bristol, and wants to speak a word with 
the young gentlemen, if you please. I told him 
they were just going out; but he says he won’t 
detain them more than half a minute.” 

“ Show him up,” said Mr. Gresham. 

“ But I suppose,” observed Hal, with a sigh, “that 
Stephen mistook when he said the young ‘ gentle- 
men.’ He only wants to see Ben, I dare say. I’m 
sure he has no reason to want to see me. Here he 
comes. Oh, Ben ! he is wearing the new coat you 
gave him,” whispered Hal. “ How much better he 
looks than he did in the ragged coat he had on 
before.” 

The boy bowed, and, addressing Mr. Gresham, 
said : “ I was sent with a message out on the Downs 
to-day, sir, and, knowing your house lay in my way, 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 3 


34 


my mother bade me call and make bold to offer the 
young gentlemen two little worsted balls that she 
has worked for them ; ” and he pulled out of his 
pocket two worsted balls worked in green and 
orange colored stripes. “ They are but poor things 
to look at, but we hope you’ll not despise ’em,” 
said he. 

He held out the balls to Ben and Hal. “ They 
are nice balls, indeed. We are much obliged to 
you,” said the boys as they received them ; and 
they tried them immediately. 

The balls struck the floor with a delightful sound 
and rebounded higher than Mr. Gresham’s head. 
Little Patty clapped her hands joyfully; but now 
a thundering rap at the door was heard. 

A few moments later, Stephen entered the room 
where Mr. Gresham and the others were talking, 
and said : “ The Masters Sweepstake, sir, are come 
for Master Hal, and I think they say that the young 
gentlemen who have archery uniforms are to walk 
together in a body, and are to parade with a drum 
and fife, and all go on the Downs together to the 
place of meeting. I am not sure I’m right, sir; for 
both the young gentlemen spoke at once, and the 
wind is very high at the street door, so that I could 


35 


not well make out all they said ; but I believe I 
have given you the sense of it.” 

“Yes, yes,” cried Hal, eagerly, “it’s all right. 
That is just what was settled the day I dined at 
Lady Diana’s.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Gresham, “don’t keep these 
Masters Sweepstake waiting.” 

Hal ran downstairs in such a hurry that he for- 
got his bow and arrows. Ben discovered them 
when he went to fetch his own. “ I know he will 
be sorry not to have his bow with him for the 
parade,” said Ben, “ because the green ribbons tied 
to it match his cockade, and he said that the boys 
were all to carry their bows as part of the show.” 

The lad from Bristol, who had been ordered by 
Mr. Gresham to eat his breakfast before he pro- 
ceeded, heard Ben’s words and said, “ If you’ll give 
me leave, sir, I shall have plenty of time, and I’ll 
run after the young gentleman, and take him his 
bow and arrows.” 

“ Will you ? I shall be much obliged to you,” 
responded Ben ; and away went the boy with the 
bow that was ornamented with the green ribbons. 

The sidewalks were full of people, and the win- 
dows of all the houses were crowded with well 


36 


dressed ladies, who were looking out in expectation 
of the archery procession. The archers were now 
drawn up in order, and the little band of children 
which had been organized by Lady Diana Sweep- 
stake closed the procession. The drummer only 
waited for her ladyship’s signal, and the archers 
only waited for her ladyship’s word of command, to 
march. 

“Where are your bow and arrows?” said her 
ladyship to Hal, as she reviewed her little regiment. 
“ You can’t march without them.” 

Hal had dispatched a messenger for his forgotten 
bow and arrows, but the messenger had not had time 
to go and return. Hal looked from side to side 
in great distress. “ Oh, there they are, I declare ! ” 
cried he. “ Look, I see the bow and the ribbons. 
Look, now, between the trees, Charles Sweepstake.” 

“ But you’ve kept us all waiting,” said his impa- 
tient friend. 

“ That good-natured fellow from Bristol is bring- 
ing them, and I’m sure I don’t deserve such a 
kindness from him,” said Hal to himself when he 
saw the lad with the black patch over his eye run- 
ning toward him quite out of breath, carrying the 
bow and arrows. 


37 


“ Fall back, my boy, fall back,” said the military 
lady as soon as he had delivered the bow and arrows 
to Hal. “ Stand out of the way, for your great 
black patch cuts no figure among us; and don’t 
follow so close as if you belonged to the procession.” 

The poor boy had no ambition to partake in the 
triumph and he kept at a distance. The drum beat, 
the fife played, the archers marched, and the spec- 
tators admired. When they came to the outskirts 
of the town. Lady Diana got on her horse, because 
the road was dirty ; and all the gentlemen and ladies 
who were with her followed her example. “We 
can leave the children to walk, you know,” said 
she to the gentleman’ who helped her to mount 
her horse, “ but I must tell them where they are to 
join us.” 

She beckoned, and Hal, who was -foremost, and 
proud to show his alacrity, ran to receive her lady- 
ship’s orders. It was a sharp and windy day, and, 
though Lady Diana Sweepstake was speaking to 
him and looking at him, he could not prevent his 
nose from wanting to be blown. He pulled out his 
handkerchief, and out rolled the new ball which had 
been given to him just before he left home, and 
which, according to his usual careless habits, he 


38 


had stuffed into his pocket in his hurry. “ Oh, my 
new ball ! ” cried he, running after it. 

As he stooped to pick it up, he let go of his hat, 
which he had hitherto held on with anxious care ; 
for the hat, though it had a fine green and white 

cockade, had no 
band or string 
round it. He had 
used the string in 
spinning his top. 
The hat was too 
large for his head 
without this band, 
and a sudden gust 
of wind blew it 
off. Lady Diana’s 
horse started and 
reared. She was 
a good horsewoman, and kept her seat to the ad- 
miration of all beholders ; but a puddle of red clay 
and water chanced to be at just that spot, and her 
ladyship’s uniform-habit was a sufferer by the 
accident. “ Careless boy ! ” said she. “ Why can’t 
he keep his hat on his head } ” 

In the meantime the wind blew the hat along the 



39 


road, and Hal ran after it. The hat lodged at 
length on a bank. Hal thought this bank was hard, 
but, alas ! the moment he set his foot on it the 
foot sank in. He tried to draw back, but his other 
foot slipped, and he fell prostrate in his green and 
white uniform into the treacherous bed of red mud. 
His companions, who had halted on the top of the 
hill, stood spectators of his misfortune. 

The poor boy with the black patch on his eye 
was following the procession at a distance, and the 
moment he saw 
what had happened 
he hastened to 
Hal’s rescue and 
dragged him out 
of the red mud. 

Hal was a deplor- 
able spectacle ; but 
the obliging mis- 
tress of a lodging- 
house received him, covered as he was with dirt, 
into her house, and the poor Bristol lad hastened 
to Mr. Gresham’s for clean stockings and shoes. 

Hal was unwilling to give up his uniform. It 
was rubbed and rubbed, and a spot here and there 



40 


washed out, while he kept continually repeating, 
“ When it’s dry, the dirt will all brush off.” 

The woman held the wet coat to the fire; but 
soon the fear of being too late at the archery meeting 
began to balance Hal’s dread of appearing in his 
stained clothing. “ Oh, I shall be too late,” he 
mourned. “ Indeed, I shall be too late. Make 
haste. It will never dry. Hold it nearer to the fire. 
I shall lose my turn to shoot. Oh, give me my 
coat. I don’t mind how it is, if I can only get 
it on.” 

Holding it nearer to the fire dried it quickly, to 
be sure, but shrunk it also, and Hal found a good 
deal of difficulty in getting the coat on again. In 
spite of all that had been done, the red splashes 
were quite visible ; yet Hal was pretty well satisfied. 
“ Nobody,” said he, “ will take notice, I dare say. 
I think the uniform looks almost as smart as 
ever ; ” and under this persuasion our young archer 
resumed his bow and pursued his way to the 
Downs. 

All his companions were far out of sight. “ I 
suppose,” said he to his friend with the black patch, 
“ my uncle and Ben had left home before you got 
my shoes and stockings for me } ” 


41 


“ Oh, yes, sir,” replied the other ; “ the butler said 
they had been gone a good half hour or more.” 

Hal trudged on as fast as he could. When he 
got on the Downs, he saw numbers of carriages 
and crowds of people all going toward the place of 
meeting. At length he reached the appointed spot, 
and in the midst of the assemblage he heard Lady 
Diana’s loud voice. 

Then he pushed forward more eagerly than ever, 
crying, “ Oh, let me in ! Pray let me into the circle, 
I’m one of the archers. Don’t you see my green 
and white uniform ? ” 

“Your red and white uniform, you mean,” said 
the man to whom he addressed himself; and the 
people, as they opened a passage for him, could npt 
refrain from laughing at the mixture of dirt and 
finery which his uniform exhibited. 

When he pushed into the midst of the circle he 
looked to his friends, the young Sweepstakes, in 
vain for their sympathy and support. They were 
among the most unmerciful of the laughers. Lady 
Diana also seemed more to enjoy than to pity his 
discomposure. “ Why could not you keep your 
hat on your head.^^” said she. “You have been 
almost the ruin of my uniform-habit; but I’ve es- 


42 


caped rather better than you have. Don’t stand 
there in the middle of the circle, or you’ll get an 
arrow in your eyes.” 

Hal went in search of better friends. “ Where’s 
my uncle ? — where’s Ben ? ” said he. 

He was in such confusion that, amid the multi- 
tude of faces, he could scarcely distinguish one from 
another ; but he felt somebody at this moment 
grasp his elbow, and to his great relief he saw the 
pleasant face of his cousin Ben. 

“ Come back ; come behind these people,” said 
Ben, “and put on my greatcoat. Here it is for 
you.” 

Right glad was Hal to cover his disgraced 
uniform with the rough greatcoat which he had 
formerly despised. He pulled the stained, droop- 
ing cockade out of his unfortunate hat ; and he 
was now sufficiently recovered from his vexation to 
give an account of his accident to his uncle and 
Patty, who anxiously inquired what had detained 
him so long. In telling the history of his disaster, 
he was just proving to Patty that his taking the 
hatband to spin his top had nothing to do with his 
misfortune, when he was summoned to try his skill 
with his bow. 


43 


“ My hands are cold. I can scarcely feel,” said 
he, rubbing them and blowing on the ends of his 
fingers. 

“ Come, come,” cried one of the young Sweep- 
stakes, “ I’m within an inch of the mark. Who’ll 
go nearer, I would like to see ? Shoot away, Hal ; 
but first understand our laws. We settled them 
before you came. You are to have three shots with 
your own bow and your own arrows ; and nobody 
is to borrow or lend a bow under pretense of other 
bows being better or worse, or under any pretense. 
Do you hear, Hal ? ” 

The young gentleman had good reasons for being 
so strict in these laws, as he had observed that none 
of his companions had such an excellent bow as he 
had provided for himself. Some of the boys had 
neglected to bring more than one arrow with them, 
and, by this cunning regulation that each person 
should shoot with his own arrows, many lost one 
or two of their shots. 

“You are a lucky fellow,” said young Sweep- 
stake. “ You have your three arrows. Shoot 
away. We can’t wait while you rub your fingers, 
man.” 

Hal, hurried by his impatient rival, and with 


44 


his hands so much benumbed he could hardly fix 
the arrow on the string, drew the bow. The arrow 
went within a quarter of an inch of Master Sweep- 
stake’s mark, which was the nearest that had yet 
been hit. Hal seized his second arrow. “ If I 
have any luck. I’ll do better this time,” said he ; 
but as he bent his bow, the string broke. 

“ There, it’s all over with you ! ” shouted Master 
Sweepstake with a triumphant laugh. 

“ Here’s my bow for him and welcome,” said Ben. 

“ No, no,” responded Master Sweepstake, “ that 
is not fair. That’s against the regulations. He 
can only shoot with his own bow.” 

It was now Ben’s turn to make his trial. His 
first arrow did not hit the target at all. His 
second was exactly as near as Hal’s first. “You 
have but one more,” said Master Sweepstake. 
“ Now for it ! ” 

Ben, before he ventured his last arrow, examined 
the string of his bow, and as he pulled it to try its 
strength it cracked. Master Sweepstake clapped 
his hands with loud exultations and insulting 
laughter; but his laughter ceased when our hero 
took from his pocket a stout piece of whipcord. 

“ The everlasting whipcord, I declare ! ” exclaimed 


45 


Hal when he saw it was the very same that had tied 
up the parcel. 

“Yes,” said Ben as he fastened it to his bow, 
“ I put it into my pocket to-day on purpose, because 
I thought I might happen to want it.” 



Ben stringing his bow with whipcord 


He drew his bow for the third and last time. 
“ Oh, papa ! ” cried little Patty, as the arrow hit 
the mark, “ is it not the nearest ? ” 

Master Sweepstake* examined the hit. There 
could be no doubt. Ben was victorious ! The 
prize bow was now delivered to him ; and Hal, 
as he looked at the whipcord, exclaimed, “ How 
lucky this whipcord has been for you, Ben!” 


46 


“ How lucky that he took care of it, perhaps you 
mean,” said Mr. Gresham. 

“Very true,” said Hal. “He might well say, 
‘Waste not, want not.’ It is a good thing to have 
two strings to one’s bow.” 


TARLTON 

Young Hardy was educated by Mr. Trueman, 
a very excellent master, at one of our rural board- 
ing schools. He was honest, obedient, and active ; 
and, having the affection of all his companions who 
were good, he did not desire that of those who were 
bad. His friend Loveit, on the contrary, wished to 
be universally liked ; and his highest ambition was 
to be thought the best-natured boy in the school — 
and so he was. 

One fine autumn evening all the boys were 
permitted to go out to play in a pleasant green 
field near the school. Loveit, and a boy named 
Tarlton, began a game at battledore and shuttle- 
cock, and a number of their comrades stood by 
to look on ; for they were the best players at 
battledore and shuttlecock in the school, and this 
was a trial of skill between them. They kept on 


47 


knocking the shuttlecock back and forth until their 
arms grew so tired that they could scarcely wield 
the battledores. The shuttlecock began to waver 
in the air. Now it almost touched the ground, 
and then, to the astonishment of the spectators. 



Loveit and Tarlton playing battledore and shuttlecock 


mounted again high over their heads; yet the 
players’ strokes became feebler and feebler, and 
“Now, Loveit!” “Now, Tarlton!” resounded •on 
all sides. 

For another minute the victory was doubtful, but 
at length the setting sun, shining full in Loveit’s 


48 


face, so dazzled his eyes that he could no longer see 
the shuttlecock, and it fell at his feet. 

After the first shout for Tarl ton’s triumph was 
over, everybody exclaimed, “ Poor Loveit ! what a 
pity that he did not stand with his back to the 
sun ! ” 

“ I dare any one to play another game with me,” 
cried Tarl ton, vauntingly; and as he spoke he 
tossed the shuttlecock up with so much force that 
it went over the hedge and dropped into a lane 
which passed along close beside the field. 

“Heyday!” said Tarl ton. “What shall we do 
now ? ” 

The boys were strictly forbidden to go into 
the lane, and it was on their promise not, to break 
this command that they were allowed to play in 
the adjoining field. No other shuttlecock was to 
be had and their play was stopped. They stood 
on the top of the bank, peeping over the hedge. 
“ I see it yonder,” said Tarl ton. “ I wish somebody 
would get it. One could climb over the gate at the 
boHom of the field and be back in half a minute,” 
added he, looking at Loveit. 

“ But you know we must not go into the lane,” 
said Loveit, hesitatingly. 


49 


“ Pooh ! ” was Tarlton’s response. “ What harm 
could it do ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” answered Loveit, drumming on 
his battledore; “but — ” 

“You don’t know, man!” exclaimed Tarlton. 
“ Why, then, what are you afraid of, I ask you ? ” 

Loveit colored, and again, in a lower voice, said, 
“ I am not afraid of anything that I know of.” 

“Yes, but you are!” declared Hardy, coming 
forward. 

“ Am I ? ” said Loveit. “ Of what, pray, am I 
afraid ? ” 

“You- are afraid of doing wrong,” Hardy an- 
swered. 

“ Afraid of doing wrong,” repeated Tarlton, 
mimicking Hardy so that he made everybody 
laugh. “ Hadn’t you better say, afraid of being 
flogged ? ” 

Loveit stood doubtful, and again had recourse to 
his battledore, which he balanced most curiously on 
his forefinger. “Look at him! Now do look at 
him ! ” cried Tarlton. “ Did you ever in your life 
see anybody look so silly! Hardy has him quite 
under his thumb. He’s so mortally afraid of Par- 
son Prig that he dare not, for the soul of him, turn 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 4 


50 


either of his eyes from the tip of his nose. See how 
he squints ! ” 

“ I don’t squint,” said Loveit, looking up, “ and 
nobody has me under his thumb. What Hardy 
said was only for fear I should get into disgrace. 
He’s the best friend I have.” 

“ Come along then,” urged Hardy, taking him by 
the arm ; and he was just going when Tarlton called 
after him, “ Ay, go along with its best friend, and 
take care it does not get into a scrape.” 

Loveit turned his head hastily back. “ Never 
mind,” said Hardy. 

“ But they’ll all think I’m so ill-natured,” said 
Loveit, after going a few steps farther. “ I had 
better go and tell them that I’m very sorry I can’t 
get the shuttlecock. Do come with me.” 

“No,” said Hardy, “I’m not going back, and 
you’d better not.” 

“ I assure you I won’t stay but a minute,” Loveit 
affirmed. “ Wait for me ; ” and he slunk back. 

Once returned, to support his character for good- 
nature he was obliged to yield to the entreaties of 
his companions, and, leaping over the gate amidst 
the acclamations of the little mob, he was quickly 
out of sight. 


51 


“ Here,” cried he when he came back quite out 
of breath, “ I’ve got the shuttlecock, and I’ll tell 
you what I’ve seen.” 

“ What ? ” asked everybody, eagerly. 

“ Why, just at the end of the lane,” he explained, 
still panting for breath, “ I heard a great rustling, 
and I looked and saw, in a nice little garden on the 
opposite side of the way, a boy in a tree shaking 
the branches ; and, at every shake, down there came 
such a shower of fine, large, rosy apples they made 
my mouth water. I called to the boy to beg one ; 
but he said he could not give me any, for they were 
his grandfather’s; and at that moment the grand- 
father poked his head out of a window. So I ran 
off as fast as my legs would carry me, though I 
heard him bawling after me all the way.” 

“ Let him bawl,” cried Tarlton. “ He shan’t bawl 
for nothing. I’m determined we’ll have some of 
his fine, large, rosy apples before I sleep to-night.” 

At this speech a general silence ensued. Every 
boy kept his eyes fixed on Tarlton, except Loveit, 
who looked down, apprehensive that he would be 
drawn on much further than he intended. “ It is as 
Hardy told me,” thought he to himself. “I had 
better not have come back.” 


52 


“ But before I say any more,” Tarlton continued, 
“ I hope we have no spies among us. If there is 
any one of you afraid to be flogged, let him march 
off this instant ! ” 

Loveit bit his lips and wished to go, but had not 
the courage to move first. He waited to see what 
the others would do. Nobody stirred. So Loveit 
stood still. 

“ Well, then,” said Tarlton, giving his hand to the 
boy next him, then to the next, “ your word and 
honor that you won’t betray me. Stand by me, and 
I’ll stand by you.” 

Each boy gave his hand and his promise. Loveit 
hung back till the last. Tarlton stepped up, hold- 
ing out his hand, and said : “ Come, Loveit, lad, 
you’re in for it. Stand by me, and I’ll stand by 
you.” 

“ Indeed, Tarlton,” expostulated he, “ I dare say 
all the apples are gone by this time. Do give up 
this scheme.” 

“ Why, I don’t know you to-day,” said Tarlton. 
“ I declare, I don’t know you. You used to be the 
best-natured, most agreeable lad in the world, and 
would do anything one asked you ; but you’re quite 
altered of late, as we were saying just now when you 


S3 


skulked away with Hardy. Pluck up a little spirit 
and be one of us, or you’ll make us all hate you.” 

“ Hate me ! ” repeated Loveit. “ No, surely, you 
won’t all hate me ! ” and he mechanically stretched 
out his hand, which Tarlton shook vigorously, say- 
ing, “ Ay, now, that’s right ! ” 

The league being thus formed, Tarlton assumed 
all the airs of a commander, and laid the plan of 
attack on the poor old man’s apple tree, — the only 
one he had in the world. There was a small win- 
dow at the end of the back staircase, through which, 
between nine and ten o’clock at night, Tarlton, 
accompanied by Loveit and another boy, crept out. 
After crossing the field and climbing the gate, they 
proceeded with fearful steps down the lane. 

Loveit led the way, for he had now resolved to go 
through the affair with ardor. At a distance he 
saw the whitewashed cottage, and the apple tree 
beside it. They quickened their pace, and with 
some difficulty scrambled through the hedge which 
fenced the garden. No one was astir but them- 
selves; yet at every rustling of the leaves they 
started and their hearts beat violently. Once, as 
Loveit was climbing the apple tree, he thought he 
heard a door in the cottage open, and he earnestly 


54 


begged his companions to desist and go home. 
This, however, he could by no means persuade 
them to do until they had filled their pockets with 
apples. Then, to his great joy, they returned and 
crept in at the staircase window. 

Loveit slept in the room with Hardy, whom he 
had left fast asleep, and whom he now was ex- 
tremely afraid of awakening. All the apples were 
emptied out of Loveit’s pockets and lodged with 
Tarlton till the morning, for fear the smell should 
betray the secret to Hardy. The room door was 
apt to creak, but Loveit opened it with such pre- 
caution that no noise could be heard, and he 
found his friend as fast asleep as when he left him. 
“ Ah,” said he to himself, “ how quietly he sleeps ! 
I wish I had been sleeping, too ! ” 

But the very next night, in spite of all his fears 
and all his penitence, he was induced by a little 
fresh ridicule and persuasion to accompany the 
same party on a similar expedition. The necessity 
of continuing the depredations became stronger 
the third day ; for, though at first only a small 
party had been in the secret, by now the nightly 
raids were known to half the school, and it was 
necessary to secure secrecy by sharing the booty. 


55 


Every one concerned was astonished that Hardy, 
with all his quickness and penetration, had not yet 
discovered their proceedings ; but Loveit could not 
help suspecting that he was not quite so ignorant 
as he appeared to be. Loveit was by no means an 
artful boy; and in talking to his friend, conscious 
that he had something to conceal, he was perpetu- 
ally on the point of betraying himself. Then he 
would blush, stammer, and bungle. If Hardy asked 
him what he meant, he would answer with a guilty 
countenance that he did not know, or abruptly 
break off, saying, “ Oh, nothing at all ! Nothing at 
all ! ” 

The visits to the apple tree had now been re- 
peated too often to remain longer unnoticed by the 
old man who lived in the cottage. He used to 
examine his only tree very frequently, and, missing 
numbers of rosy apples which he had watched 
ripening, he concluded that something was wrong, 
especially as a gap was made in his hedge, and 
there were several small footsteps in his flower- 
beds. 

The good old man was not avaricious, for though 
he was poor he had enough to live on. Nor was 
he a cross old man. He looked up at the tree in 


sorrow rather than in anger, and, leaning on his 
staff, he considered what he had best do. 

“ If I complain to their master,” said he to him- 
self, “ they will certainly be flogged, and that I 
would be sorry for ; yet they must not be allowed 

to go on stealing. 
That would be 
worse still. Let 
me see — oh, I 
will borrow 
Farmer Kent’s 
dog Barker. He’ll 
keep them off. I’ll 
answer for it.” 

Farmer Kent 
lent his dog Bar- 

The old man and his apple tree , .... 

ker,cautioning his 
neighbor, at the same time, to be sure to chain him 
well, for he was the fiercest mastiff in England. 

Night came, and Tarlton, Loveit, and their com- 
panions returned at the usual hour. Grown bolder 
now by frequent success, they went on talking and 
laughing. But the moment they set foot in the 
garden the dog, which was fastened to the trunk of 
the apple tree, started up, and, shaking his chain as 



57 


he sprang forward, barked savagely. There was 
just moonlight enough to see him. “ Let us try the 
other side of the tree,” suggested Tarlton. 

But the dog flew round in an instant, barking 
with increased fury. “ He’ll break his chain and 
tear us to pieces,” cried Tarlton; and, struck with 
terror, he threw down the basket he had brought 
with him, and betook himself to flight with the 
greatest precipitation. 

“ Help me ! Oh, help me ! I can’t get through the 
hedge,” cried Loveit in a lamentable tone, while 
the dog growled hideously and sprang forward to 
the extremity of his chain. “Stay for me one 
minute, dear Tarlton ! ” 

He called in vain, and was left to struggle 
through his difficulties by himself. At last, torn 
and terrified, he got through the hedge and ran 
home, despising his companions for their selfish- 
ness. Nor could he help observing that Tarlton, 
with all his vaunted prowess, was the first to run 
away from the appearance of danger. 

The next morning Loveit reproached the party 
with their conduct. “Why could not any of you 
stay to help me ? ” said he. 

“ We did not hear you call,” answered one. 


58 


“ I was so frightened,” said another, “ I would not 
have turned back for anything.” 

“And you, Tarlton.'^” questioned Loveit. 

“ I ? ” said Tarlton. “ Had not I enough to do to ^ 
take care of myself, you blockhead ? Every one for 
himself in this world ! ” 

“ So I see,” responded Loveit, gravely. “ Hardy 
would not have served me so, however,” Loveit 
added, turning away in disgust. 

Tarlton was alarmed lest he should lose his 
influence over Loveit. “ Pooh ! ” said he. “ What 
nonsense! But think no more about it. We are 
all very sorry and beg your pardon. Come, shake 
hands.” 

Loveit gave his hand, but he gave it rather 
coldly, and then he walked off. 

After school in the evening, as he was standing 
beside Hardy, who was ruling a sheet of paper for 
him, Tarlton approached, and, seizing him by the 
arm, cried, “ Come along with me, Loveit, I’ve 
something to say to you.” 

“ I can’t come now,” said Loveit, drawing away 
his arm. 

“ Ah, do come now,” said Tarlton, in a voice of 
persuasion. 


59 


“Well, I’ll come in a few minutes,” Loveit 
replied. 

“ Nay, there’s a good fellow, come now,” begged 
Tarlton. 

“ What is it you’ve got to say to me ? I wish 
you’d let me alone,” Loveit complained ; yet at the 
same time he suffered himself to be led away. 

Tarlton took particular pains to humor him, and 
even offered him one of his favorite playthings, say- 
ing, “ Loveit, the other day you wanted a top. I’ll 
give you mine if you would like it.” 

Loveit thanked him, and was overjoyed at the 
thought of possessing the top. “ But what did you 
want to say to me just now? ” he asked. 

“ Ay, we’ll talk of that presently; not yet — when 
we get out of hearing.” 

“ Nobody is near us,” said Loveit. 

Tarlton looked round suspiciously. “Come a 
little farther,” he urged. “Well, now, you know 
the dog that frightened us so last night ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Loveit. 

“It will never frighten us again,” Tarlton de- 
clared. 

“ Won’t it ? How so ? ” 

“ Look here,” said Tarlton, drawing from his 


6o 


pocket something wrapped in a blue handker- 
chief. 

“ What’s that ? ” asked Loveit. 

Tarlton opened out the handkerchief. “ Raw 
meat ! ” Loveit exclaimed. “ How came you by it ? ” 

“Tom, the servant-boy, got it for me,” responded 
Tarlton, “and I’m to give him sixpence.” 

“ And is it for 



the dog ? ” ques- 
tioned Loveit. 


“Yes, I vowed 
I’d be revenged 
on him, and after 
this he’ll never 
bark again.” 


“Never bark 
again ! What do 
you mean ? Is 
the meat poi- 


Tarlton showing Loveit the poisoned meat 


soned ? ” cried Loveit, starting back with horror. 

“ Only poisoned for a dog,” said Tarlton, con- 
fused. “You could not look more shocked if it 
was poisoned for a Christian.” 

Loveit stood for nearly a minute in profound 
silence. “Tarlton,” said he at last, in a changed 


6i 


tone and altered manner, “ I will have no more 
to do with you.” 

“ I was only joking,” said Tarlton, hastily, for he 
feared Loveit might be so provoked that he would 
reveal the design to poison the dog. 

“You were in earnest!” retorted Loveit. 

“ But I won’t use the meat,” Tarlton promised, 
“though Tom told me poisoning is a thing that 
is often done. Ask Tom.” 

“ I’ll ask nobody,” said Loveit. 

But only just ask him to hear what he’ll say,” 
urged Tarlton. 

“ I don’t want to hear what he’ll say,” cried 
Loveit vehemently. “ The dog will die in agonies 
— in horrid agonies I ” 

“ Well, there’s no harm done now,” said Tarl- 
ton ; but, though he thought fit to dissemble with 
Loveit, he was thoroughly determined in his pur- 
pose. 

Loveit returned to his friend Hardy with his 
mind in such agitation that he neither talked 
nor moved like himself; and two or three times 
his heart was so full he was ready to burst into 
tears. 

That night, as he and Hardy were undressing. 


62 


Hardy suddenly recollected that he had left his 
new kite out on the grass. “ Oh,” said he, “ it will 
be quite spoiled before morning ! ” 

“Call Tom,” suggested Loveit, “and bid him 
bring it in for you.” 

They both went to the top of the stairs and 
called, “Is Tom below.?” 

No one answered. They called again louder. 
“I’m here,” replied Tom at last, coming out of 
Tarlton’s room with a look of mixed embarrassment 
and effrontery. 

As he was receiving Hardy’s commission, Loveit 
saw the corner of the blue handkerchief hanging 
out of his pocket. This excited fresh suspicions 
in Loveit’s mind, and without saying a word he 
stationed himself at the window in his room which 
looked out toward the lane. The moon was risen, 
and he could see if any one passed that way. 

“What are you doing there?” inquired Hardy, 
after he had been watching for some time. “ Why 
don’t you come to bed ? ” 

Loveit returned no answer, but continued stand- 
ing at the window. Nor did he watch long in vain. 
Presently he saw Tom glide slowly along a by-path 
and get over the gate into the lane. “ He’s gone to 


, 63 

do it ! ” exclaimed Loveit with an emotion which he 
could not command. 

“Who’s gone to do what?” cried Hardy, starting 
up. 

“How cruel! How wicked I” continued Loveit. 

“ What’s cruel ? What’s wicked ? Speak out at 
once 1 ” Hardy commanded. 

Loveit instantly, though in an incoherent man- 
ner, explained the affair to him. Scarcely had the 
words passed his lips when Hardy began dressing 
himself. “ What are you going to do ? ” asked 
Loveit in great anxiety. “ They’ll never forgive 
me for telling. You won’t betray us?” 

“ I will not betray you. Trust to me,” said 
Hardy. 

He left the room, and, in hope of overtaking Tom 
before the fate of the poor dog was decided, ran 
with all possible speed across the field and then 
down the lane. He came up with Tom just as he 
was climbing the bank into the old man’s garden. 
Hardy, too much out of breath to speak, seized hold 
of him, dragged him down, and detained him with 
a firm grasp while he panted for utterance. 

“What, Master Hardy !” exclaimed Tom, “is it 
you ? What’s the matter ? What do you want ? ” 


64 


“ I want the poisoned meat that you have in your 
pocket,” replied Hardy. 

“ Who told you I had any such thing ? ” said 
Tom, clapping his hand on his guilty pocket. 

“Give it to me quietly,” demanded Hardy, “and 
I’ll let you off.” 

“ Sir, upon my word I haven’t ! I didn’t ! I 
don’t know what you mean,” said Tom, trembling, 
though he was by far the stronger of the two. 

“You do!” declared Hardy, with great indigna- 
tion, and a violent struggle immediately commenced. 

The dog, aroused by their voices, began to bark, 
and Tom was terrified lest the old man should come 
out to see what was the matter. His strength forsook 
him, and, flinging the handkerchief and meat over the 
hedge, he ran with all his speed. The handkerchief 
fell within reach of the dog, who instantly snapped 
at it. Luckily it did not come untied. Hardy saw a 
pitchfork sticking in the ground close by, and, seizing 
it, thrust it into the handkerchief. The dog pulled, 
tore, and growled. It was impossible to get the 
handkerchief from between his teeth; but the knot 
was loosened so that the meat, unperceived by the 
dog, dropped out, and Hardy, with inexpressible joy, 
plunged the pitchfork into it and bore it away. 


Never did hero retire with more satisfaction from 
a field of battle. Full of the pleasure of his success, 
Hardy ran home and vaulted over the window sill, 
when the first object he beheld was Mr. Power, the 
assistant master, 
standing at the 
head of the stairs 
with his candle in 
his hand. 

“Come up, 
whoever you are,” 
said Mr. Power, 
in a stern voice. 

“ I thought I 
should find you 
out at last.” 

Hardy obeyed 
without reply. 

“ Hardy ! ” exclaimed Mr. Power, starting back with 
astonishment. “ Is it you, Mr. Hardy ? ” said he, 
holding the light to the boy’s face. “ Why, sir,” 
he continued, in a sneering tone, “ I’m sure, if Mr. 
Trueman was here, he wouldn’t believe his own 
eyes. Will you please do me the favor, sir, to 
empty your pockets?” 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 5 



Hardy discovered 


66 


Hardy complied in silence. 

“ Heyday ! Meat ! Raw meat ! What next ? ” 
said Mr. Power. 

“ That’s all,” affirmed Hardy, turning his pockets 
inside out. 

Mr. Power took up the meat. “ Sir,” said Hardy, 
eagerly, “ let that meat be burned. It is poisoned.” 

“ Poisoned ! ” cried Mr. Power, dropping it out of 
his fingers. “You wretch,” continued he, looking 
at him with a menacing air, “ what is all this ? 
Speak ! Why don’t you speak } ” he shouted, shak- 
ing him by the shoulder impatiently. 

Still Hardy was silent. “ Down on your knees 
this instant and confess all,” commanded Mr. 
Power. “Tell me where you’ve been, what you’ve 
been doing, and who are your accomplices ; for I 
know there is a gang of you. So down on your 
knees and confess. That’s the only way now to 
get off yourself. I can tell you my pardon is not 
to be had without asking for it.” 

“ Sir, I have no pardon to ask,” said Hardy, in a 
firm but respectful voice. “ I have nothing to con- 
fess. I am innocent.”* 

“ Very well, sir! Very well! Very fine!” responded 
Mr. Power. “ Stick to it, I advise you, and we shall 


67 

see. How will you look to-morrow when Mr. True- 
man comes home ? ” 

“ As I do now, sir,” replied Hardy, unmoved. 
“Upon my word and honor, I have done nothing 
wrong.” 

“ Nothing wrong ? ” Mr. Power repeated. “ What 
— when I caught you going out at night ? ” 

“ That, to be sure, was wrong,” said Hardy, recol- 
lecting himself ; “ but except that — ” 

“ Except that, sir ! I will except nothing,” de- 
clared Mr. Power. “ Come along with me, young 
gentleman. Your time for pardon is past.” 

Saying these words, he pulled Hardy along a 
narrow passage to a small closet set apart for des- 
perate offenders, and usually known by the name of 
“ The Black Hole.” “ Take up your lodging there 
for to-night,” said he, pushing him in and double- 
locking the door with a tremendous noise. “ Now 
I think I have you safe,” and Mr. Power stalked off 
with steps which made the whole gallery resound, 
and caused many a guilty heart to tremble. 

The conversation that had passed between 
Hardy and Mr. Power had been anxiously listened 
to ; but only a word or two here and there had been 
distinctly overheard. The locking of “ The Black 


68 


Hole ” door was a terrible sound. Some knew not 
what it portended, and others knew too well. All 
assembled in the morning with faces of anxiety. 
Tarl ton’s and Loveit’s were the most agitated. 
Tarlton was concerned for himself, Loveit for his 
friend, for himself, for everybody. Each one of 
the party, and Tarlton at their head, surrounded 
Loveit with reproaches, and considered him the 
author of the evils which threatened them. 

“Why did you say anything to Hardy How 
could you do so ? You had promised not to! Oh, 
what shall we do ! What a scrape you have 
brought us into 1 It’s all your fault, Loveit I ” 

“ Goodness I There’s the bell I ” exclaimed a num- 
ber of voices at once. “ Now for it I ” 

They gathered for morning devotion, and Mr. 
Power, with a gloomy brow, appeared and walked 
to his place at the head of the room. They knelt 
down to prayers, and, the moment they rose, Mr. 
Power, laying his hand on the table, said, “ Stand 
still, gentlemen, if you please.” 

Everybody stood stock-still, and he walked out. 
They guessed that he had gone for Hardy, and the 
whole room was in commotion. Each with eager- 
ness asked what none could answer,' “ Has Hardy 


6g 

told ? What has he told ? Who has he told 
of ? ” 

“I’ll answer for it he has told of all of us,” said 
Tarlton. 


“ And I’ll answer for it he has told of none of 
us ” declared Loveit, with a sigh. 



Hardy about to be flogged 


“You don’t think he’s such a fool, when he can 
get himself off?” said Tarlton. 

At this instant the prisoner was led in. “ Well, 
sir,” said Mr. Power, sitting down in Mr. Trueman’s 
elbow-chair and placing Hardy opposite to him, 
“ What have you to say to me this morning ? ” 

“ Nothing, sir,” answered Hardy, in a decided yet 
modest manner. 



70 


“ But I have something to say to you, sir ! ” 
exclaimed Mr. Power, and, seizing him in a fury, 
he was about to give him a severe flogging, when 
the door opened and Mr. Trueman entered, fol- 
lowed by an old man, who leaned on his cane as 
he walked, and in his other hand carried a basket 
of apples. 

When they came to the head of the room Mr. 
Trueman stopped short. “Hardy!” said he, with 
a voice of unfeigned surprise. 

“ Ay, Hardy, sir,” said Mr. Power. “ I told him 
you’d not believe your own eyes ; ” and the assistant 
master drew Mr. Trueman aside and whispered. 

“ So, sir,” resumed Mr. Trueman, addressing him- 
self to Hardy, when the whispering was done, “ I 
find I have been deceived in you. It is only 
three hours ago that I told your uncle I never 
had a boy in my school in whom I placed so much 
confidence ; but the moment my back is turned, you 
are the first to set an example of disobedience to 
my orders. More than that, you are a thief — you 
and some others,” Mr. Trueman added, looking 
round the room. 

“ I am not a thief,” cried Hardy, indignantly. 

“ Have not you robbed this old man ? Don’t 


71 


you know the taste of these apples ? ” asked Mr. 
Trueman, taking one out of the basket. 

“ I never have touched one of that old man’s 
apples,” was Hardy’s response. 

“Never touched one of them! You have done 
worse I You have had the barbarity, the baseness, to 
attempt to poison the dog that guarded the tree. The 
poisoned meat was found in your pocket last night.” 

“ The poisoned meat was found in my pocket, 
sir,” acknowledged Hardy; “but I never attempted 
to poison the dog. I saved his life.” 

“Nonsense! Cunning!” said Mr. Power. “I 
hope you won’t let him impose on you, sir.” 

“ No, he cannot impose on me. I have a proof 
he is little prepared for,” said Mr. Trueman, pro- 
ducing the blue handkerchief in which the meat 
had been wrapped. 

Tarlton turned pale. Hardy’s countenance never 
changed. “Don’t you know this handkerchief ” 
Mr. Trueman asked. 

“ I do, sir.” 

“ Is it not yours ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“Do you know whose it is?'* cried Mr. Power, 
but Hardy was silent. 


72 


Mr. Trueman turned to the rest of the pupils 
and said, “ Now, gentlemen, I want to know whose 
handkerchief this is.” 

“ I’m sure it’s not mine,” and “ I’m sure it’s none 
of mine,” burst from every mouth. 

“Let us see,” Mr. Trueman continued; “perhaps 
we may find out the owner another way,” and he 
examined the corners. 

It was torn almost to pieces, but luckily the 
corner that was marked remained. “J. T. ! ” cried 
Mr. Trueman. 

Every eye sought the guilty Tarlton, who now, 
as pale as ashes and trembling in every limb, sank 
down on his knees and in a whining voice begged 
for mercy. “ Upon my word and honor, sir. I’ll 
tell you all,” he said. “ I should never have thought 
of stealing the apples if Loveit had not first told me 
of them; and it was Tom who put the poisoning 
the dog into my head. It was he that carried 
the meat. Oh, dear sir ! do let me off, do let me 
off this time! I’m not the only one, indeed, sir! 
It’s very hard if I’m to be flogged more than the 
others ! ” 

“I’m not going to flog you,” replied Mr. True- 


man. 


73 


“ Thank you, sir,” said Tarlton, getting up and 
wiping his eyes. 

“You need not thank me,” said Mr. Trueman. 
“Take your handkerchief and go out of this room 
— out of this house. Let me never see you more. 
If I had any hopes of him,” Mr. Trueman observed, 
as he shut the door after him, “ I would have pun- 
ished him ; but I have none.” 

Loveit and all the rest of the guilty party now 
stepped out of the ranks, confessed their fault, and 
declared themselves ready to bear any punishment 
their master thought proper. 

“ Oh, they have been punished enough,” said the 
old man. “Forgive them, sir;” and Hardy joined 
in this entreaty. 

“There is one,” said Mr. Trueman, pointing to 
Hardy, “ who has merited a reward. The highest 
I can give him is that of pardoning his companions.” 

Hardy bowed, and his face glowed with pleasure. 

“ I am sure,” thought Loveit, “ this is a lesson I 
shall never forget.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said the old man, with a faltering 
voice, “ it wasn’t for the sake of my apples that I 
complained ; and if you please I’ll plant on the 
school grounds a young apple tree from my old one. 


74 


I will take care of it myself as long as I am able ; 
and you, sir,” said he, laying his trembling hand on 
Hardy’s head, “ may God bless you.” 


THE BASKET-WOMAN 

At the foot of a steep, slippery hill, called Chalk 
Hill, near Dunstable in Bedfordshire, there was 
formerly a hut, or rather a hovel, which travelers 
would scarcely have supposed could be inhabited, if 
they had not seen the smoke rising from its peaked 
roof. An old woman lived in this hovel, and with 
her a little boy and girl, the children of a beggar, 
who died and left these orphans perishing with 
hunger. They thought themselves very happy 
when the old woman took them into her hut and 
bade them warm themselves at her fire, and gave 
them a crust of bread to eat. 

She was very kind to the poor children, and 
worked hard at her spinning wheel and at her knit- 
ting to support herself and them. She earned 
money also in another way. She used to follow all 
the carriages as they went up Chalk Hill ; and when 
the horses stopped to rest, she put stones behind the 


75 



wheels to prevent the carriages from rolling back- 
ward down the steep, slippery incline. 

The little boy and girl loved to stand beside the 
old woman’s spinning wheel when she was spinning 
and talk to her. At these times she explained to 

them what is 
meant by telling 
the truth, and 
what it is to be 
honest, and taught 
them to wish to be 
useful. 

One evening, as 
they were standing watching her spin, the little 
boy said, “ Grandmother,” for that was the name 
she liked the children to call her, “how often you 
are forced to leave your spinning to follow the 
carriages up that steep hill and put stones under 
the wheels ! The people who are in the carriages 
give you a half-penny or a penny for doing this, 
don’t they ? ” 

“ Yes, child.” 

“ But it is very hard work for you to go up and 
down that hill. You often say that you are tired, 
and you know you cannot spin all that time. Now, 


The old woman and the orphan children 


76 


if we might go up the hill and put the stones be- 
hind the wheels, you could sit at your work; and 
would not the people give us the half-pence ? And 
could not we bring them all to you ? Do, dear 
grandmother, try us for one day, — to-morrow, will 
you ? ” 

“Yes,” said the old woman, “ I will try what you 
can do ; but I must go up the hill with you for the 
first two or three times, for fear you should get 
hurt.” 

So the next day the little boy and girl went with 
their grandmother, as they called her, up the steep 
hill; and she showed the boy how to prevent the 
wheels from rolling back by putting stones behind 
them. “ This is called scotching the wheels,” said 
she; and she took off the boy’s hat and gave it to 
the little girl to hold up to the carriage windows 
ready for the half-pence. 

When she thought that the children knew how 
to manage by themselves, she left them and . re- 
turned to her spinning wheel. A great many car- 
riages happened to go by this day, and the little 
girl received a great many half-pence. She carried 
them all in her brother’s hat to her grandmother 
in the evening, and the old woman smiled and 


77 


thanked the children. She said that they had been 
useful to her, and that her spinning had gone on 
finely, because she had been able to sit at her wheel 
all day. “ But, Paul, my boy,” said she, “ what is 
the matter with your hand ? ” 

“ Only a pinch that I got as I was putting a 
stone behind the wheel of a chaise. It does not 
hurt me much, grandmother; and I’ve thought of 
a good thing for to-morrow. I shall never be hurt 
again if you will be so good as to give me the 
block of wood that lies in the chimney corner and 
the handle of the broken crutch.” 

“ Take them, dear,” said the old woman. “ You’ll 
find the handle of the broken crutch under my 
bed.” 

Paul went immediately to work and fastened one 
end of the crutch to the block of wood. “Look, 
grandmother, look at my scotcher ! ” he cried. “ I 
shall scotch the wheels with it and never pinch my 
fingers again. My hands, you see, will be safe at 
the end of this long stick; and, sister Anne, you 
need not be at the trouble of cariydng any more 
stones after me up the hill. I wish it were morning 
and that a carriage would come, so I might run up 
the hill and try my scotcher.” 


73 


“And I wish as many carriages may go by to- 
morrow as there did to-day, and that we may bring 
you as many half-pence, grandmother,” said the 
little girl. 

“ So do I, my dear Anne,” responded the old 
woman ; “ for I mean that you and your brother 
shall have all the money you get to-morrow. You 
may buy some gingerbread for yourselves, or some 
of those ripe plums you saw at the fruit stall, the 
other day, in Dunstable. I told you then I could 
not afford to buy such things for you ; but now 
that you can earn half-pence for yourselves, it is 
fair you should taste a ripe plum and a bit of 
gingerbread once in a while.” 

“We’ll bring some of the gingerbread home 
to her, shan’t we, brother ? ” whispered little 
Anne. 

The morning came, and Paul and his sister rose 
at five o’clock, that they might be sure to be ready 
for early travelers. Paul kept his scotcher poised 
on his shoulder, and watched eagerly from his 
station at the bottom of the hill. He did not 
wait long before a carriage came, and he followed 
it up the hill. The instant the driver called to 
him and bade him stop the wheels, he put his 


79 


scotcher behind one of them, and found that it 
answered the purpose perfectly well. 

The children kept at their work all day, and 
when it grew dusk in the evening Anne said to 
her brother, “ I don’t think any more carriages 
will come by tp-day. Let us count the half-pence, 
and carry them home now to grandmother.” 

“ No, not yet,” answered Paul. “ Leave the money 
in the hole where I have put it. I dare say more 
carriages will come by before it is quite dark, and 
then we shall have more half-pence.” 

Paul had taken the half-pence out of his hat, and 
put them into a hole in the high bank by the road- 
side. “ You stay here,” said he, “and I will go and 
gather some blackberries for you in the hedge in 
yonder field ; but the moment you see any carriage 
coming along the road, run as fast as you can and 
call me.” 

Anne waited, and she trailed the scotcher up 
and down till she was tired. Then she stood still 
and looked for a carriage, but she saw none. So 
she went sorrowfully into- the field where her 
brother was gathering blackberries, and said, “ Paul, 
Pm sadly tired, and my eyes are quite strained with 
looking for carriages. No more will come to-night. 


8o 


and your scotcher is lying there, of no use, on the 
ground. Have I not waited long enough for to-day, 
Paul ” 

“ Oh, no,” replied Paul ; “ wait a little bit longer. 
Here are some blackberries for you ; and now hurry 
back, for perhaps a carriage may go by while you 
are standing here talking to me.” 

Anne, who was of a very obliging temper, re- 
turned to where the scotcher lay ; and scarcely had 
she reached the spot when she heard the noise of 
a carriage. She ran to call her brother, and to 
their great joy they now saw four carriages coming 
toward them. Paul, as soon as the carriages started 
up the hill, followed with his scotcher. First he 
scotched the wheels of one carriage, then of an- 
other ; and Anne, in observing how well the 
scotcher stopped the wheels, forgot to go and 
hold her brother’s hat to the travelers for half- 
pence, till she was roused by the voice of a little, 
rosy girl who was looking out of the window of 
one of the carriages. “ Come close to the carriage 
door,” said the little girl. “ Here are some half- 
pence for you.” 

Anne held the hat, and she afterward went on 
to the other carriages. Money was thrown to her 


8i 


from each of them, and when they had all got 
safely to the top of the hill, she and her brother 
sat down on a large- stone by the roadside to count 
their treasure. They began by counting what was 
in the hat. 

“ Oh, brother, look at this ! ” exclaimed Anne. 
“ This is not the same as the other half-pence.” 



“ No, indeed, it is not,” cried Paul. “ It is 
no half-penny. It is a guinea, — a bright, golden 
guinea ! ” 

“ Is it ? ” said Anne, who had never seen a 
guinea in her life before, and who did not know 
its value. “ And will it do as well as a half-penny 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 6 


82 


to buy gingerbread? We can ask the woman at 
the fruit stall.” 

“ No, no,” said Paul, “ I can tell you all about it 
as well as anybody in the whole world.” 

“ The whole world ! Oh, Paul, you forget ! — not 
so well as our grandmother.” 

“ Why, not so well as our grandmother, perhaps ; 
but, Anne, with a guinea you can buy two hundred 
and fifty-two times as much as you can with a 
penny. Grandmother told me so.” 

“ Oh, brother ! ” cried Anne, in amazement. 
“ And you know the fruit woman said she would 
give us a dozen plums for a penny. Now for this 
little guinea would she give us two hundred and 
fifty-two dozen ? ” 

“ If she had them and we wanted so many, to be 
sure she would,” declared Paul ; “ but I think we 
would not like to have two hundred and fifty-two 
dozen plums. We could not eat such a number.” 

“We could give some of them to grandmother,” 
suggested Anne. 

“ But there would be too many for her and for 
us, too,” said Paul. “ And when we had eaten the 
plums, there would be an end of all the pleasure. 
I’ll tell you what I am thinking of, Anne. We 


33 


might buy something with this guinea for grand- 
mother that would be very useful to her, something 
that would last a great while.” 

“ What, brother ? ” 

“ Something she said she wanted very much last 
winter, when she was so ill with the rheumatism, — 
something that she said yesterday, when you were 
making her bed, she wished she might be able to 
buy before cold weather.” 

“ I know ! I know what you mean ! ” said Anne, 
— “a blanket. Oh, yes, Paul, that will be much 
better than plums. Do let us buy a blanket for 
her. How glad she will be ! I will make her bed 
with the new blanket, and then bring her to look 
at it. But, Paul, where are blankets to be got ? ” 

“ Leave that to me. I know. I saw one hang- 
ing in front of a shop the day I went last to Dun- 
stable, and I never saw anything anywhere that I 
wished for half so much as I did for that blanket 
for grandmother. Do you remember how she used 
to shiver with the cold last winter.? I’ll buy the 
blanket to-morro’w. Pm going to Dunstable with 
her spinning.” 

“ That will be all right ! ” cried Anne, clapping 
her hands. 


84 


“But stay! Hush! Don’t clap your hands so, 
Anne,” said Paul, and his countenance changed 
and he looked very grave. “ There is one thing we 
have neither of us thought of. We cannot buy the 
blanket. I’m afraid.” 

“Why, Paul? Why?” 

“ Because I don’t think this guinea is honestly 
ours.” 

“ Nay, brother, it was given to us, and grand- 
mother said all that was given us to-day was to 
be our own.” 

“ But who gave it to you, Anne ? ” 

“ Some of the people in those carriages. I don’t 
know which of them, but I dare say it was the little, 
rosy girl.” 

“Well,” said Paul, “when she called you she 
said, ‘ Here are some half-pence for you.’ If she 
gave you the guinea, she must have given it to 
you by mistake.” 

“ But perhaps some of the people in the other 
carriages gave it to me, and did not give it to me 
by mistake. A gentleman was reading in one of 
the carriages, and there was a lady with him who 
told him to look and see your scotcher. Then the 
gentleman laid down his book and put his head out 


of the window, and asked me if the scotcher was 
your own making. I said ‘Yes,’ and that I was 
your sister, and he smiled at me and put his hand 
into his waistcoat pocket and threw some half-pence 
into the hat. I dare say he gave us the guinea 
along with the rest, because he liked your scotcher 
so much.” 

“ Why,” said Paul, “ that might be ; but as we are 
not certain, we had best go and ask grandmother 
what she thinks.” 

So they went to their grandmother, showed her 
the guinea, and told her how they came by it. 

“ My dear children,” said she, “ I am very glad 
you did not buy either the plums or the blanket 
with this guinea. Those who threw it to you 
did so by mistake, I warrant ; and what I would 
have you do is, to go to Dunstable and try if 
you can find, at either of the two inns, the person 
who gave it to you. Probably the travelers will 
sleep at Dunstable instead of going on farther, it 
is now so late in the evening; and it is likely that 
whosoever gave you a guinea, instead of a half- 
penny, has found out the mistake by this time. 
You can inquire for the gentleman who was read- 
ing in the carriage.” 


86 


“ Oh, I know a good way of finding him,” ex- 
claimed Paul. “ I remember he rode in a dark- 
green carriage with red wheels. Come, Anne, let 
us set out before it gets quite dark.” 

Anne and her brother started immediately and 
presently entered the town. They passed the tempt- 
ing stall that was covered with gingerbread and 
ripe plums, and pursued their way steadily till they 
came to the shop where Paul had seen the blanket. 
There they stopped for a moment, while Paul 
pointed the blanket out and said, “ What a pity, 
Anne, that the guinea is not ours ! However, we 
are doing what is honest.” 

Soon afterward they arrived at one of the inns, 
and, going through a gateway, they pushed forward 
along a crowded passage into the inn yard. There 
they found themselves in the midst of a great noise 
and bustle. The hostlers were carrying in lug- 
gage and the postilions were rubbing down their 
horses, or rolling the vehicles into the coach-house. 
In this confusion the children were uncertain to 
whom they ought to state this errand. While they 
hesitated, a waiter, who was crossing the yard in a 
hurry, almost ran over Paul, and cried out sharply, 
“ What now ? What business have you here ? You 


87 


must not crowd up the yard. Walk off, young 
gentleman, if you please.” 

“ Pray give me leave, sir,” said Paul, “ to stay a 
few minutes to look among these carriages for one 
that is dark green with red wheels.” 

“ What’s that he says about a dark-green car- 
riage asked a hostler. 

“What should such a one as he know about 
carriages ? ” said the hasty waiter, and he was going 
to turn the children out of the yard ; but the hostler 
caught hold of his arm and said, “ Maybe the boy 
has some business here. Let’s know what he has 
to say for himself.” 

The waiter was at this instant obliged to leave 
them to attend the bell, and Paul told his errand 
to the hostler, who, when he heard the story, shook 
Paul by the hand and said, “ Stand steady, my honest 
lad ; I’ll find the carriage for you if it is here.” 

After some difficulty the green carriage with the 
red wheels was found, and the postilion who drove 
it. He told Paul that he was just going into the 
parlor to the gentleman he had driven, and that he 
would carry the guinea to him. 

“No,” objected Paul, “we would like to give it 
back ourselves.” 


88 


“Yes,” said the hostler, “that they have a right 
to do.” 

The postilion made no reply, but looked vexed 
and went toward the house, desiring the children 
would wait in the passage till his return. In the 
passage there was standing a kindly looking woman 
with a huge basket on each side of her. One of the 
baskets happened to be a little in the way of the 
entrance, and a man who was going in overturned 
it, and all its contents were thrown out. Bright 
colored hats and boxes and slippers, all of them 
prettily woven out of straw, were scattered in dis- 
order on the dirty ground. 

“ Oh, they will be trampled on ! They will be all 
spoiled ! ” exclaimed the woman. 

“ We’ll help you pick them up if you will let us,” 
cried Paul and Anne, and they immediately ran to 
her assistance. 

When the things were safe in the basket again, 
the children expressed a great desire to know how 
such beautiful things could be made of straw ; but 
the woman had not time to answer before the 
postilion came out of the house, and with him a 
gentleman’s servant, who stepped up to Paul, and, 
clapping him on the back, said, “ So, my little chap. 


89 


I gave you a guinea for a half-penny, I hear; and 
I understand you’ve brought it back. That’s right. 
Give me hold of it.” 

“ Brother,” said Anne, “ this is not the gentleman 
that I saw read- 
ing.” 

“ Pooh, child, I 
came in the green 
carriage. Here’s 
the postilion can 
tell you so. I 
and master came 
in that carriage. 

It was my master 
that was reading, 
as you say, and 
it was he that 
threw the money 
out to you. He 
is going to bed. Paul giving the servant the guinea 

He is tired and 

can’t see you himself. He desires that you’ll give 
me the guinea.” 

Paul was too honest himself to suspect that this 
man was telling him a falsehood, and he now 



90 


readily delivered the guinea into the servant’s 
hand. 

“ Here’s sixpence apiece for you, children,” said 
the servant, “ and good night to you.” 

He pushed them toward the gate, but the basket- 
woman whispered to them as they were going, 
“Wait in the street till I come to you.” 

“ Mrs. Landlady,” cried the gentleman’s servant 
when he went in, “ please to let me have roasted 
larks for my supper. You are famous for larks at 
Dunstable, and I make it a rule to taste the best 
of everything wherever I go ; and, waiter, let me 
have a bottle of claret. Do you hear ? ” 

The basket-woman could see much that was 
going on from where she stood in the passage. 
The postilion was still waiting as if to speak to the 
gentleman’s servant, and she observed them after- 
ward whispering and laughing together. “No bad 
hit,” was a sentence which the servant pronounced 
several times. 

It occurred to the basket-woman that this man 
had cheated the children out of the guinea to pay 
for the larks and claret, and she thought perhaps 
she could presently discover the truth. 

“ Waiter ! Joe ! Joe ! ” cried the landlady. “ Why 


91 


don’t you carry in the sweetmeat puffs and the 
tarts to the company in the best parlor? ” 

“ Coming, ma’am,” answered the waiter. 

The landlady threw open the door of the best 
parlor to let him in, and the basket-woman had a 
full view of a large, cheerful company, including 
several children, sitting round a supper table. 

“ There are customers enough for you in that 
room if you have the luck to be called in,” said the 
landlady to the basket-woman, as the door closed 
after the waiter and the tarts. “ Pray, what would 
you have the conscience to charge me for these 
half-dozen little mats here to put under my 
dishes ? ” 

“ A trifle, ma’am,” replied the basket-woman. 

She let the landlady have the mats cheap, and 
the landlady then declared she would step in and 
see if the company in the best parlor had done 
supper. “ ni speak a good word for you,” added 
she, “ and get you called in afore the children are 
sent to bed.” 

She went into the parlor, and, after saying, “ I 
hope the supper and everything is to your liking, 
ladies and gentlemen,” continued with, “ If any of 
the young gentlemen or ladies would have a 


92 


curiosity to see any of our famous Dunstable straw- 
work, there’s a decent body without would, I dare 
say, be proud to show them her pincushion-boxes, 
and her baskets and slippers, and her other cur’osi- 
ties.” 

The eyes of the children all turned toward 
their mother. She smiled, and immediately their 
father called in the basket-woman and desired her 
to produce her curiosities. The children gathered 
round the large pannier as it was opened, but they 
did not touch any of the things. 

“ Oh, papa ! ” cried a little girl ; “ here is a pair 
of straw slippers that would just fit you, I think.” 

“Yes, my dear,” was her father’s response; “but 
I cannot indulge myself in buying them. I must 
make amends for my carelessness,” said he, laugh- 
ing. “ I threw away a guinea to-day, and I must 
endeavor to save sixpence at least.” 

“ Ah, the guinea that you threw by mistake into 
the little girl’s hat as we were coming up Chalk 
Hill. Mamma, I wonder that the little girl did not 
take notice of its being a guinea, and that she did 
not run after the carriage to give it back. I should 
think, if she had beeij an honest girl, she would 
have returned it.” 


93 


“ Miss ! — Ma’am ! — Sir ! ” said the basket-woman. 
“ If it would not be impertinent, may I speak a 
word ? A little boy and girl have just been here 
inquiring for a gentleman who gave them a guinea 
instead of a half-penny by mistake; and not ten 
minutes ago I saw the boy hand the guinea to a 
gentleman’s servant, who said his master desired 
it should be returned to him.” 

“ There must be some mistake or some trick in 
this,” said the gentleman. “ Are the children gone ? 
I must see them.” 

“ I’ll go for them,” said the good-natured basket- 
woman. “ I bade them wait in the street, for my 
mind misgave me that the man was a cheat.” 

Paul and Anne were speedily summoned; and 
Anne, the moment she saw the gentleman, knew 
that he was the very person who admired her 
brother’s scotcher, and who threw a handful of 
half-pence into the hat ; but she could not be cer- 
tain, she said, that she received the guinea from 
him. She only thought it was most likely she did. 

“ But I can be certain whether the guinea you 
returned is mine or no,” said the gentleman. “ I 
marked it when I put it in my waistcoat pocket 
this morning.” 


94 


He rang the bell, and told the waiter to let the 
gentleman who was in the room opposite know 
that he wished to see him. 

“ The gentleman in the white parlor, sir, do you 
mean ? ” 

“ I mean the master of the servant who received 
a guinea from this child.” 

“ He is a Mr. Pembroke, sir,” said the waiter. 

Mr. Pembroke came, and, as soon as he heard 
what had happened, he desired the waiter to show 
him to the room where his servant was at supper. 
The dishonest servant, who was feasting on larks 
and claret, knew nothing of what was going on ; 
but his knife and fork dropped from his hands, and 
he overturned a bumper of claret, as he started up 
from the table in great surprise and terror, when 
his master came in, with a face of indignation, and 
demanded the stolen guinea. 

The servant, confounded and half intoxicated, 
could only stammer. He pulled his money out 
and spread it on the table with trembling hands. 
The marked guinea appeared, and his master 
instantly turned him out of his service. Mr. Pem- 
broke then went back to the best parlor, where he 
restored the guinea to its rightful owner. 


95 


“ And now, my little honest girl,” said the gentle- 
man who had admired her brother’s scotcher, turn- 
ing to Anne, “ tell me who you are, and what you 
and your brother wish for most.” 

Anne and Paul exclaimed together, “ The thing 
we wish for the most is a blanket for our grand- 
mother ! ” 

“ She is not our grandmother in reality, I believe, 
sir,” said Paul ; “ but she is very good to us and 
taught me to read, and taught Anne to knit, and 
taught us both that we should be honest; and I 
wish she had a new blanket before next winter, to 
keep her from the cold and the rheumatism. There 
is a blanket in one of the Dunstable shops that 
would be just the thing for her.” 

“ She shall have it, then,” said the gentleman. 

He now took up one of the straw baskets and 
asked, “Would you like to learn to make such 
things as these ? ” 

“ Oh, very much,” said Paul. 

“ Very much,” said Anne. 

“ Then I would like to teach you how to make 
them,” said the basket-woman. 

The gentleman put a guinea into the woman’s 
hand, and told her that he knew she could not afford 


96 


to teach them her trade for nothing. “ I shall come 
through Dunstable again in a few months,” added 
he ; “ and I hope to see that you and your scholars 
are going on well. If I find that they are making 
good progress, I will do something more for you.” 



“But we must tell all this to our grandmother,” 
said Anne, “and ask her about it; and I’m afraid 
it is getting very late, and that we should not stay 
here any longer.” 

“ It is a fine moonlight night,” said the basket- 
woman, “ and you have not far to go. I’ll walk with 
you and see you safe home.” 


97 


The gentleman detained them a few minutes 
longer till a messenger whom he had dispatched to 
purchase the much-wished-for blanket returned. 

“Your grandmother will sleep better for having 
this good blanket, I hope,” said he, as he gave it into 
Paul’s arms. “ It has been obtained for her by the 
honesty of her adopted children.” 


THE WHITE PIGEON 

Mr. Somerville, to whom the little town of 
Somerville in Ireland belonged, wished to inspire his 
tenantry with a taste for order and domestic happi- 
ness, and took every means in his power to encour- 
age industrious, well-behaved people to settle in his 
neighborhood. When he had finished building a 
row of good slated houses, he declared that he would 
let them to the best tenants he could find. By the 
best tenants he did not, however, mean the best 
bidders ; and many who offered an extravagant 
price for the houses were surprised to find their 
proposals rejected. 

Among these was Mr. Cox, an alehouse keeper. 

“ Please your honor, sir,” said he to Mr. Somer- 
ville, “ I expected you would let me the house next 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 7 


98 


the apothecary’s. Was it not fifteen guineas I 
mentioned in my proposal? And did not your 
honor give it to another for thirteen ? ” 

“ I did,” replied Mr. Somerville, calmly. 

“ And, please your honor, I don’t know what it is 
I or mine have done to offend you. I’m sure there 
is not a gentleman in all Ireland I’d go farther to 
serve. I wish I could find out the man that has 
belied me to your honor.” 

“ No man has belied you, Mr. Cox; but your nose 
belies you much if you do not love drinking, and 
your black eye and cut chin belie you much if you 
do not love quarreling.” 

“ Quarrel ! I quarrel, please your honor ! I defy 
any man ten mile round to prove such a thing; and 
I am ready to fight him that dares to say the like. 
As to drink, not a drop of whisky have I touched 
these six months, except what I took with Jemmy 
McDoole the night I met your honor coming from 
the fair of Ballynagrish.” 

To this speech Mr. Somerville made no answer, 
but turned away to look at the bow window of a 
handsome new inn which the glazier was fitting with 
glass. 

“ Please your honor, that new inn is not let, I 


99 


hear, as yet,” resumed Mr. Cox. “ If your honor 
recollects, you promised me, last year, that I could 
rent it of you.” 

“ Impossible ! ” cried Mr. Somerville ; “ for I had 
no thoughts of building an inn at that time.” 

“ Oh, I beg your honor’s pardon ; but, if you’d be 
just pleased to recollect, I was in the bog meadows 
with Thady O’Connor when you made me the 
promise. I’ll leave it to him, so I will.” 

“ But I will not leave it to him,” said Mr. Somer- 
ville. “ I never made any such promise.” 

“ Then your honor won’t let me have it? ” 

“ No. I do not wish you for a tenant.” 

“ Well, God bless your honor. I’ve no more to 
say,” Mr. Cox responded ; but as he walked away 
he slouched his hat over his face and muttered to 
himself, “ I hope I’ll live to be revenged on him.” 

Mr. ScMnerville went the next morning to see 
the new inn, which he expected would be perfectly 
finished ; but he was met by the carpenter, who, 
with a rueful face, informed him that six panes of 
glass in the large bow window had been broken 
during the night. 

“ Ha ! Perhaps Mr. Cox has broken my windows 
because I refused to let him a house,” said Mr. 


100 


Somerville ; and many of the neighbors, who knew 
the malicious character of this Mr. Cox, remarked 
that it was like one of his tricks. 

A boy about twelve years old, however, stepped 
forward and said, “ I’m sure Mr. Cox could not be 
the person that broke these windows last night, 
for he was six miles off. He slept at his cousin’s, 
and he has not returned home yet. So I think he 
knows nothing of the matter.” 

Mr. Somerville was pleased with the honest sim- 
plicity of the boy, and, observing that he looked in 
eagerly when the house door was opened, he asked 
him whether he wished to go inside and see the 
new house. “Yes, sir,” said the boy, “I’d like to 
go up those stairs and see what I would come to.” 

“Up with you, then,” said Mr. Somerville; and 
the boy ran up the stairs. 

He went from room to room with expressions of 
admiration and delight. At length, as he was ex- 
amining the garret, he was startled by a fluttering 
noise over his head; and, looking up, he saw a white 
pigeon, which, frightened at his appearance, flew 
round and round the room till it found its way out 
of the door and down the staircase. 

The carpenter was on the stairs, speaking to Mr. 


lOI 


Somerville ; but the moment he spied the white 
pigeon, he exclaimed, “There it is, please your 
honor ! There’s what has done all the damage to 
our bow window. I’ll catch it and chop its 
head off, as it 
deserves, this 
minute.” 

“ Stay ! Oh, 
stay! Don’t chop 
its head off ! ” 
cried the boy, who 
came running out 
of the garret with 
the greatest eager- 
ness “ I broke carpenter and the pigeon 

your window, sir,” said he to Mr. Somerville. “ I 
broke your window with this ball ; but I did not 
know that I had done it till this moment, or I would 
have told you before. Don’t chop its head off,” 
added the boy to the carpenter, who had now the 
white pigeon in his hands. 

“No,” said Mr. Somerville, “the pigeon’s head 
shall not be chopped off, nor yours either, my good 
boy ; but pray explain this matter to us, for you 
have not made it quite clear. How happened it 



102 


that you could break my windows without knowing 
it? And how came you to find it out at last? ” 

“ Sir,” the boy replied, “ if you’ll come up here, 
I’ll show you all I know, and how I came to 
know it.” 

In the garret the boy pointed out to Mr. Somer- 
ville a broken pane of glass in a small window. 
The window looked out on a piece of waste ground 
behind the house, where the children of the village 
often played. “ We were playing there at ball yes- 
terday evening,” said the boy, addressing himself to 
Mr. Somerville, “ and one of the lads challenged me 
to hit a mark, which I did ; but he said I did not 
hit it, and bade me give him my ball as a forfeit. 
This I would not do, and when he began to wrestle 
with me for it, I threw the ball, as I thought, over 
the house. He ran to look for it, but could not find 
it, which I was very glad of. Just now I came 
across it lying on this heap of shavings, sir, under 
this broken window. As soon as I saw it lying 
there, I knew I must have been the person that 
broke the window, and through this window came 
the white pigeon. Here’s one of its feathers stick- 
ing in the gap.” 

*‘Yes,” said the carpenter; “and in the bow- 


103 


window room below, there’s plenty more feathers, 
for I’ve just been down to look. It was the pigeon 
broke them windows, sure enough.” 

“ But it could not have got in if I had not broken 
this little window,” said the boy, earnestly. “ I am 
able to earn sixpence a day, and I’ll pay for all the 
mischief and welcome. The white pigeon belongs 
to a poor neighbor, who is very fond of it, and I 
would not have it killed for anything.” 

“Take the pigeon, my generous lad,” said Mr. 
Somerville, “ and carry it back to your neighbor. I 
forgive all the damage it has done, for your sake. 
We can have the windows mended, and do you 
keep the sixpences you earn for yourself.” 

“That’s what he never did yet,” remarked the 
carpenter, as the boy left the house with the pigeon 
in his hands. “ Many’s the sixpence he earns, but 
not a half-penny goes into his own pocket. The 
money goes, every farthing, to his poor father and 
mother.” 

“ And where does this boy live, and who are his 
father and mother ? ” inquired Mr. Somerville. 

“ They are but just come into the town, please 
your honor,” said the carpenter. “They lived 
formerly on the O’Donnel estate, where they took a 


104 


joint lease with a man who fell afterward into bad 
company and ran out of all he had. He could not 
pay the landlord, and these poor people were forced 
to pay his share and their own too, which almost 
ruined them. They were obliged to give up the 
land, and now they have furnished a little shop in 
this town with what goods they had the money to 
buy after the sale of their cattle and stock. They 
have the friendship of all who know them. The 
boy is very ready in the shop, and he writes a good 
hand and is quick at casting up accounts. Besides, 
he is likely to do well in the world because he is 
never in idle company.” 

“From his behavior this morning, I am inclined 
to think that he deserves all your praise,” said Mr. 
Somerville ; and he resolved to inquire more fully 
concerning this poor family, and to assist them if 
he should find them such as they had been repre- 
sented. 

In the meantime, the boy, whose name was Brian 
O’Neill, went to return the white pigeon to its 
owner. “You have saved its life,” said the woman 
to whom it belonged, “and I’ll make you a present 
of it.” 

Brian thanked her, and he from that day always 


105 


took care to scatter some oats for the pigeon in his 
father’s yard; and it grew so tame at last that it 
would hop about the 
kitchen, and eat off 
the same trencher 
with the dog. 

After the shop was 
shut up at night, 

Brian used to amuse 
himself with reading , 

^ The pigeon and the dog eating together 

some books the 

schoolmaster lent him. One of these was a history 
of birds and beasts, and he looked to see whether 
the pigeon was mentioned. To his great joy, he 
found a full description of his favorite bird. 

“ So, Brian, your schooling has not been thrown 
away on you,” said his father, when he came in and 
saw Brian reading his book very attentively. 

“ I’ve made a great discovery,” cried Brian. 
“ I’ve found out in this book a most curious way 
of making a fortune, and I hope it will make our 
fortune, father. If you’ll sit down. I’ll tell you 
about it.” 

Mr. O’Neill, in hope of pleasing his son rather 
than in the expectation of having his fortune made, 



io6 


immediately sat down to listen; and Brian explained 
to him that he had found an account of pigeons 
which carried notes and letters. “ And, father,” con- 
tinued the boy, “ my pigeon is of this sort ; and I 
intend to make my pigeon carry messages. I shall 
begin to train it to-morrow morning. You know 
people often pay a great deal for sending mes- 
sengers, and no boy can 
run, no horse can gallop, 
so fast as a bird can fly. 
Therefore the bird must 
be the best messenger, 
and I shall be paid the 
best price. Hey, father.!^ ” 
“ To be sure, to be sure, 
my boy,” replied his father, 
laughing. “ I wish you 
may make the best mes- 

Brian training his pigeon 

senger in Ireland of your 
pigeon. All I beg is that you won’t neglect our 
shop for your pigeon; for I’ve a notion we have a 
better chance of making a fortune by the shop than 
by the white pigeon.” 

Brian never neglected the shop; but in his 
leisure hours he amused himself with training his 



pigeon. After much patience, he at last succeeded 
so well that one day he went to his father and 
offered to send him word by the pigeon what beef 
was a pound in the market of Ballynagrish, where 
he was going. 

“ The pigeon will be home long before me, 
father,” said Brian; “and it will come in at the 
kitchen window and light on the dresser. . Then 
you must take off the little note I shall tie under 
its left wing, and you’ll know the price of beef.” 

The pigeon carried the message well, and Brian 
was much delighted with his success. He soon 
was employed by the neighbors, who were amused 
by the boy’s fondness for his swift messenger, and 
the fame of the white pigeon spread through all the 
region. 

At one of the fairs, a set of men, of desperate 
fortunes, met to drink and to plan robberies. Their 
place of meeting was at the alehouse of Mr. Cox, 
the man who was offended by Mr. Somerville’s 
hinting that he was fond of drinking and of quar- 
reling, and who threatened vengeance for having 
been refused the new inn. 

While these men were talking over their schemes, 
one of them remarked that a member of the gang, 


io8 


who lived about seven miles distant, had not 
arrived. 

“ He did not know we were to meet,” said 
another. “ I wish we could get word to him more 
easily.” 

This turned the discourse on the difficulties of 
sending messages secretly and quickly. Cox’s son, 
a lad of nineteen, who was one of the gang, men- 
tioned the white carrier pigeon, and he was desired 
to get the pigeon into his possession. Accordingly, 
the next day, young Cox went to Brian O’Neill and 
tried, at first by persuasion and afterward by threats, 
to prevail on him to sell the pigeon. Brian was 
resolute in his refusal. 

“ If we can’t have the bird by fair means we will 
by foul,” said Cox ; and a few days later the pigeon 
was gone. 

Brian searched for it in vain. He inquired of 
all the neighbors if they had seen it, and applied 
to Cox, but to no purpose. Cox swore that he 
knew nothing about the matter. This was false, 
for it was he who, during the nighttime, had stolen 
the white pigeon. He conveyed it to his com- 
rades, and they rejoiced that they had it in their 
possession. 


109 


They endeavored to teach the pigeon to carry 
messages for them in a part of the country at 
some distance from Somerville; and when they 
fancied it had forgotten its former habits and its 
old master, they ventured to employ it nearer 
home. The pigeon, however, had a better mem- 
ory than they imagined. They loosed it from 
a bag near the town of Ballynagrish, in expec- 
tation that it would stop at the house of Cox’s 
cousin, which was on the road between Ballyna- 
grish and Somerville. But the pigeon, though 
it had been purposely fed at this house for a 
week previous, did not stop there. It flew on to 
its old master’s house and pecked at the kitchen 
window, as it had formerly been taught to do. Its 
master, fortunately, was within hearing, and ran 
with the greatest joy to open the window and let 
it in. 

“ Oh, father, here’s my white pigeon come back ! ” 
exclaimed Brian. 

At this instant the bird spread its wings, and 
Brian discovered under one of them a small and 
very dirty-looking note. He opened it in his 
father’s presence. The scrawl was scarcely legible, 
but these words were at length deciphered : — 


1 10 


“ Thare are eight of uz sworn.' I send yo at 
botom thare names. We meat at tin this nite at my 
faders and have guns and all in radiness to brak 
into the grate ouse. Mr. Summervil is to lye out 
to nite. Kip the pigeon untill to-morrow. For ever 

“ Murtagh Cox.” 

No sooner had they finished reading the note 
than both father and son exclaimed, “ Let us go 
and show this to Mr. Somerville.” 

They set out immediately, and Mr. Somerville, in 
consequence of the information in the note, took 
proper measures for the apprehension of the eight 
men who had sworn to rob his house. When they 
were all safely lodged in the county jail, he sent 
for Brian O’Neill and his father. After thanking 
them for the service they had done him, he counted 
out ten bright guineas on a table and pushed them 
toward Brian, saying, “ I suppose you know that 
a reward of ten guineas was offered some weeks 
ago for the discovery of John MacDermod, one of 
the eight men whom we have just put in prison.” 

“ No, sir,” said Brian, “ I did not know it, and I 
did not bring that note to you to get ten guineas. 
I don’t want to be paid for it,” 


“ That’s my own boy,” said his father. “ We 
thank you, sir, but we’ll not take the money.” 

A few days afterward Mr. Somerville called at 
O’Neill’s house, and bade him and his son follow 
him. They followed till he stopped opposite the 
bow window of the new inn. The carpenter had 
just put up a 
sign, which was 
covered over 
with a bit of car- 
peting. 

“ Go up the 
ladder, will you,” 
said Mr. Somer- 
ville to Brian, 

“ and push that 
sign straight, for 
it hangs quite 
crooked. There, 
now it is straight and you may pull off the carpet 
and let us see the new sign.” 

The boy pulled off the cover and saw a white 
pigeon painted on the sign, and the name of O’Neill 
in large letters underneath. 

“ Take care you do not tumble and break your 



Brian uncovering the sign 


1 12 


neck,” said Mr. Somerville, who saw that Brian’s 
surprise was too great for his situation. “ Come 
down from the ladder, and wish your father joy of 
being master of the new inn called ‘ The White 
Pigeon ’ ; and I wish him joy of having such a son 
as you are. Those who bring up their children 
well will certainly be rewarded for it, be they poor 
or rich.” 


FORGIVE AND FORGET 

In the neighborhood of a seaport town in the 
west of England, there lived a gardener who had 
an only son called Maurice. One day the gar- 
dener sent his son to the town to purchase some 
seeds for him. When Maurice arrived at the seed- 
shop it was full of people, who were all impatient to 
be served. First a great tall man and next a great 
fat woman pushed before him, and he stood quietly 
beside the counter, waiting till the shopman should 
be at leisure to attend to him. At length, when all 
the other people who were in the shop had got 
what they wanted, the shopman turned to Maurice. 

“ And what do you want, my patient little 
fellow ? ” said he. 


“ I want these seeds for my father,” said Maurice, 
putting a list of them into the shopman’s hand. 

The seedman was picking out the seeds that 
Maurice wanted, and wrapping them in paper, when, 
from a door at the back of the shop, there came in 
a sturdy, rough-faced man, who exclaimed : “ Are 
the seeds I ordered ready ? The wind’s fair — 
they ought to have been aboard yesterday ; and my 
china jar — is it packed up and directed? Where 
is it ? ” 

“ It is up there on the shelf over your head, sir,” 
answered the shopman. “We have not had time 
to pack it yet, but we shall do the packing to- 
day; and I will get the seeds ready for you, sir, 
immediately.” 

“ Immediately ! Then stir about it. The seeds 
will not wrap themselves up. Make haste, pray ! ” 

“ As soon as I have done up the parcel for this 
little boy,” was the shopman’s response. 

“What matters the parcel for this little boy?” 
said the irritated customer. “He can wait and I 
cannot. Here, my good lad, take your parcel and 
sheer off ; ” and he started to hand Maurice the 
bundle of seeds from the counter as the shopman 
stooped to get a piece of string to tie around it. 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 8 


The parcel was but loosely folded up, and, as the 
man lifted it, the weight of some peas that were 
inside burst the paper. Maurice in vain held his 
hands to catch them. The peas rolled to all parts 
of the shop, and the impatient man swore at them ; 
but Maurice set about collecting them as fast as 
possible. 

While the boy was busied in this manner, the 
man got what seeds he wanted, and, as he was 
talking about them, a sailor came into the shop 
and said, “ Captain, the wind has changed within 
five minutes and it looks as if we would have ugly 
weather.” 

“ Well, I’m glad of it,” replied the rough-faced 
man, who was the captain of the ship. “ I am glad 
to have a day longer to stay ashore,” and he started 
to leave the shop. 

Maurice, who was kneeling on the floor picking 
up his seeds, noticed that the captain’s foot was 
caught in a string which hung down from the shelf 
where the china jar stood. He saw that the captain, 
if he took one more step forward, must pull the 
string so that it would throw down the jar, round 
the bottom of which the string was entangled. 
He instantly caught hold of the captain’s leg and 


IIS 

stopped him. “ Stay ! Stand still, sir, ” said he, 
“or you will break your china jar.” 

The man stood still, looked, and saw how near 
he had come to dragging down his beautiful china 
jar. 

“ I am really very much obliged to you, my 
little fellow,” said he. “You have saved my jar, 
which I would not have broken for ten guineas. 
It is for my wife, and I’ve brought it from abroad 
many a league. It would have been a pity if I had 
broken it just when it was safe landed. What you 
did was returning good for evil. I am sorry I 
spilled your seeds. Be so kind,” continued he, turn- 
ing to the shopman, “ as to reach down that china 
jar for me.” 

The shopman lifted down the jar very carefully, 
and the captain took off the cover and pulled out 
some tulip bulbs. 

“ Are you fond of gardening } ” said he to 
Maurice. 

“ Yes, sir,” replied Maurice, “very fond of it; for 
my father is a gardener, and he lets me help him at 
his work, and he has given me a little garden of my 
own.” 

“ Then here are a couple of tulip bulbs for you,” 


ii6 

said the captain ; “ and if you take care of them, I’ll 
promise that you will have the finest tulips in Eng- 
land in your little garden. These tulips were given 
to me by a Dutch merchant, who told me they 
were some of the rarest in Holland. They will 
prosper with you. I’m sure, weather permitting.” 

Maurice thanked the captain and returned home, 
eager to show his tulip bulbs to his father, and to 
a companion, the son of a nurseryman who lived 
near. Arthur was the name of the nurseryman’s 
son. 

The first thing Maurice did, after showing his 
tulip bulbs to his father, was to run in search of 
Arthur. He thought he would most likely find him 
in his garden, and to reach it he had to cross his 
own garden which was only separated from his 
neighbor’s by a low wall of loose stones. 

“ Arthur ! Arthur ! ” he called. “ Where are you ? 
Are you in your garden? I want you.” 

Arthur made no answer, and did not, as usual, 
come running to meet his friend. “ I know where 
you are,” continued Maurice, “ and I’m coming to 
you as fast as the raspberry bushes will let me. I 
have good news for you ! ” 

But when Maurice had got through the rasp- 


berry bushes he saw that his bell-glass, under which 
his cucumbers were growing so finely, was broken 
to pieces. 

“ I am afraid you will be very angry with me,” 
said Arthur, who stood leaning on his spade in his 
garden. 

“ Why, was it 
you, Arthur, broke 
my bell-glass ? Oh, 
how could you do 
so ! ” exclaimed 
Maurice. 

“ I was throw- 
ing weeds and rub- discovering his broken glass 

bish on the wall,” Arthur replied, “ and by accident 
a great lump of couch grass, with stones hanging 
to the roots, went over and fell on your bell-glass 
and broke it, as you see.” 

Maurice lifted up the lump of couch grass which 
had gone through the glass, and, after looking at 
his cucumbers for a moment in silence, he said: 
“Oh, my poor cucumbers! You must all die now. 
I shall see your yellow flowers withered to-morrow ; 
but the mischief is done, and it cannot be helped. 
So, Arthur, let us say no more about it.” 



“ You are very good,” was Arthur’s response. 
“ I thought you would be angry. I am sure I 
would have been, if you had broken the glass and 
it had been mine.” 

“ Oh, forgive and forget,” said Maurice ; “ that’s 
the best way. Look what I have got for you.” 

Then he told Arthur the story of the captain of 
the ship, and about the china jar, and showed the 
fine tulip bulbs which had been given to him. 
Maurice concluded by offering one of the precious 
bulbs to Arthur, who thanked him with great joy, 
and repeatedly said, “ How good you were not to 
be angry with me for breaking your bell-glass ! I 
am much more sorry for it than if you had been in 
a passion with me.” 

Arthur now went to plant his tulip bulb, and 
Maurice looked at the ground his companion had 
been digging, and at all the things which were 
coming up in his garden. 

“ I don’t know how it is,” said Arthur, “but you 
always seem as glad to see the things in my garden 
coming up, and doing well, as if they were all your 
own. I am much happier since my father came to 
live here, and since you and I have been allowed to 
work and to play together, than I ever was before ; 


for, until we came here, I had a cousin in the house 
with me who used to plague me. He never took 
pleasure in looking at my garden, or at anything 
I did that was well done, and he never gave me 
a share of anything he had ; and so I did not like 
him. How could I ? But I am always happy with 
you, Maurice. You know we never quarrel.” 

Arthur’s father, Mr. Oakly, the nurseryman, was 
apt to take offense at trifles; and he thought that 
it showed spirit to remember and to resent an in- 
jury. Therefore, though he was not an ill-natured 
man, he was sometimes led by this mistaken idea 
to do ill-natured things. “ A warm friend and a 
bitter enemy ” was one of his maxims, and he had 
many more enemies than friends. 

When first he settled near Mr. Grant, the 
gardener, he felt inclined to dislike him ; for Mr. 
Grant was a Scotchman, and he had a prejudice 
against Scotchmen. He believed them all to be 
cunning and avaricious, because he had once been 
overreached by a Scotch peddler. Grant’s friendly 
manners in some degree conquered this preposses- 
sion, but still he secretly suspected that the gar- 
dener’s civility was all show. 

Grant had some remarkably fine raspberries. 


120 


The fruit was so large as to be quite a curiosity. 
When it was in season, many strangers came from 
the neighboring town to look at these berries, 
which obtained the name of Brobdignag raspberries. 

“ How came you by these wonderful fine rasp- 
berries } ” said Mr. Oakly, one evening, to the 
gardener. 

“ That’s a secret,” replied Grant, with a smile. 

“ Oh, in case it’s a secret. I’ve no more to say,” 
was Oakly ’s response. “ I never meddle with any 
man’s secrets ; but, neighbor Grant, if you could 
give me — ” 

Here Mr. Oakly was interrupted by the entrance 
of other persons, and he did not finish making 
his request. He was going to ask for some of 
the Brobdignag raspberry plants. The next day 
the thought of the raspberry plants recurred to 
his memory, but he did not like to go himself on 
purpose to make his request, and he desired his 
wife, who was just setting out for market, to call 
at Grant’s gate, and, if he was at work in his 
garden, to ask him for a few plants of his rasp- 
berries. 

The answer which Oakly’s wife brought was, 
that Mr. Grant had not a raspberry plant in the 


I2I 


world to give him, and that, if he had ever so 
many, he would not give one away, except to his 
own son. 

Oakly flew into a passion when he received this 
message, declared it was just such a mean, shabby 
trick as might be expected from a Scotchman, and 
that he would die in the parish workhouse before 
he would ever ask another favor from a Scotchman. 

He related to his wife for the hundredth time the 
way in which he had been taken in by the Scotch 
peddler ten years before, and concluded by forswear- 
ing all further intercourse with Mr. Grant and 
every one belonging to him. 

“ Son Arthur,” said he, addressing himself to 
the boy, who just then came in from work, “let 
me never again see you with Grant’s son.” 

“With Maurice, father exclaimed Arthur. 

“ With Maurice Grant, I say,” responded Mr. 
Oakly. “ I forbid you, from this hour forward, to 
have anything to do with him.” 

“ Oh, why, dear father ? ” asked Arthur. 

“ Ask me no questions,” ordered Mr. Oakly, 
“but do as I bid you.” 

Arthur burst out crying, and only said, “Yes, 
father. I’ll do as you bid me.” 


22 


“ Why, now, what do you cry for ? ” said the 
nurseryman. “ Is there no boy to play with, sim- 
pleton, but this Scotchman’s son.? I’ll find an- 
other playfellow for you, child, if that be all.” 

“ That’s not all, father,” replied Arthur, trying to 
stop himself from sobbing. “ The thing is, I shall 
never have such another playfellow as Maurice 
Grant.” 

“ Ah,” said Oakly, “thee art just like thy father, 
— ready to be taken in by a fair word. You may 
think yourself well off to have done with that boy.” 

“ Done with him ! ” repeated Arthur. “ Oh, father, 
and shall I never go again to work in his garden, 
and may not he come to mine .? ” 

“No,” answered the nurseryman, sturdily. “ His 
father has used me uncivil. I say no. Wife, sweep 
up the hearth. Boy, don’t take on like a fool, but 
eat thy bacon and greens, and let’s hear no more of 
Maurice Grant.” 

Arthur promised to obey, and only begged that 
he might once more speak to Maurice and tell him 
it was by his father’s orders he acted. Mr. Oakley 
acceded to this request; but when Arthur further 
begged to know what reason he might give for the 
separation, his father refused to tell his reasons. 


123 


The two friends took leave of one another very 
sorrowfully. 

Mr. Grant, when he heard of all this, endeavored 
to discover what could have offended his neighbor, 
but all explanation was prevented by the obstinate 
silence of Oakly. 

The message which Grant really sent about the 
Brobdignag raspberries was somewhat different from 
that which Mr. Oakly received. It was that the 
raspberries were not Mr. Grant’s, but belonged to 
his son, and that it was not the right time of year 
for planting them. This message had been un- 
luckily misunderstood. Grant gave his answer to a 
Welsh servant-girl, who did not perfectly compre- 
hend his broad Scotch ; and she in her turn could 
not make herself entirely intelligible to Mrs. Oakly. 
Besides, the horse on which Mrs. Oakly rode would 
not stand quietly, and she was impatient to receive 
her answer and ride on to market. 

Oakly, when he had once resolved to dislike his 
neighbor, could not long remain without finding 
fresh causes of complaint. There was in Grant’s 
garden a plum tree which was planted close to the 
loose stone wall that divided the garden from the 
nursery. The soil in which the plum tree was 


124 


planted happened not to be quite as good as that on 
the opposite side of the wall, and the roots of the 
tree had gradually taken possession of the ground 
beyond the wall. 

As the tree belonged to Mr. Grant, Oakly thought 
it had no right to draw its nourishment from his 
ground. An attorney told him he might oblige 
Grant to cut it down; but Grant refused to cut 
down his plum tree at the attorney’s desire, and the 
attorney persuaded Oakly to go to law about the 
business. 

The lawsuit continued for some months, and the 
attorney at length came to Oakly with a demand 
for money to carry on the suit, assuring him that in 
a short time it would be determined in his favor. 
Oakly handed the lawyer ten golden guineas, re- 
marking that it was a great sum for him to pay, and 
that nothing but the love of justice could make him 
persevere in his lawsuit about a bit of ground “which, 
after all,” said he, “ is not worth twopence. The 
plum tree does me little or no damage, but I don’t 
like to be imposed on by a Scotchman.” 

A few days after this conversation, Arthur inter- 
rupted his father, as they were working in the 
nursery, and pointed to a book and some young 


125 


plants which lay on the wall near the plum tree. 
The boy went to look at them and said, “ I fancy, 
father, these things are for you; for there is a little 
note directed to 
you in Maurice’s 
handwriting. 

Shall I bring it 
to you ? ” 

“ Yes, let me 
read it, child,” 
replied his father. 

It contained 
these words : — 

“ Dear Mr. 

Oakly : I don’t 
know why you 
have quarreled 
with us. I am very sorry for it. But, though 
you are angry with me, I am not angry with you. I 
hope you will not refuse some of my Brobdignag 
raspberry plants, which you asked for a great 
while ago, when we were good friends. It was 
not the right time of year to plant them then, 
which was the reason they were not given to you; 



Arthur showing his father the book and note 


126 


but it is just the right time to plant them now, and 
I send a book in which you will find the reason we 
always put seaweed ashes about their roots. So, 
wishing your Brobdignag raspberries may turn out 
as well as ours, and longing to be friends again, I 
am, with love to dear Arthur and self, 

“ Your neighbor’s son, 

“ Maurice Grant.” 

A great part of this letter was lost on Oakly, 
because he was not very expert at reading and 
writing, and it cost him much trouble to spell the 
words and put them together. However, he seemed 
affected by it, and said, “ This Maurice appears to 
be a good sort of boy, Arthur; but as to the rasp- 
berries, I believe all that he says about them is 
just an excuse. At any rate, as I could not get 
them when I asked for them. I’ll not have them 
now. Do you hear me, Arthur ? ” 

Arthur had turned to a page that was doubled 
down in the book Maurice had left with the plants, 
and he now read aloud as follows : — 

“ ‘ There are certain strawberries cultivated in 
the Isle of Jersey which grow as large as apricots, 
and the flavor is peculiarly grateful. In Jersey, all 


27 


kinds of fruit and vegetables are produced a fort- 
night or three weeks sooner than in England. Al- 
though this may be attributed to the island being 
surrounded with a moist atmosphere, yet the sea- 
weed ashes made use of as manure may also have 
their portion of influence.’ 

“ And here,” continued Arthur, “ is something 
written with a pencil on a slip of paper. It is in 
Maurice’s writing. I will read it to you : — 

“ ‘ When I saw in this book what is said about the 
strawberries growing as large as apricots, I thought 
perhaps seaweed ashes might be good for my 
father’s raspberries. He gave me leave to try 
them, and I gathered some seaweed that had been 
cast on the shore and dried it and burned it, and 
then I manured the raspberries with the ashes. 
The year afterward the berries grew to the size 
that you have seen. Now I have told you all I 
know about these raspberrries, and I hope you will 
not be angry with us any longer.’ ” 

Mr. Oakly was much pleased by this openness 
and said, “Why, Arthur, this is something like. 
Do you know whether your friend Maurice was 
born in England or in Scotland ? ” 

“No, sir, I don’t know,” was Arthur’s answer. 


128 


“ I never asked. Look, papa, my tulip is in 
bud.” 

“ Upon my word,” said his father, “ this will be 
a beautiful tulip ! ” 

“ It was given to me by Maurice,^’ explained 
Arthur. 

“ And did you give him nothing in return ? ” was 
his father’s inquiry. 

“Nothing in the world,” replied Arthur; “and 
he gave it to me at a time when he had good cause 
to be very angry with me, for I had broken his 
bell-glass.” 

“ I have a great mind to let you play together 
again,” said Arthur’s father. 

“ Oh, if you would,” cried Arthur, clapping his 
hands, “ how happy we should be ! Do you know, 
father, I have often sat for an hour at a time in 
our crab tree watching Maurice at work in his 
garden, and wishing I was at work with him. My 
garden is not in nearly such good order as it used 
to be, but everything would go right again if — ” 

Here Arthur was interrupted by the attorney, 
who came to ask Mr. Oakly some question about 
the lawsuit. Oakly showed him Maurice’s letter, 
and, to Arthur’s extreme astonishment, the attorney 


129 

had no sooner read it than he exclaimed : “ What 
an artful little gentleman that lad is ! Why, this is 
the most cunning letter I ever read ! ” 

“ Where’s the cunning ? ” asked Oakly, and he 
put on his spectacles. 

“ My good sir, don’t you see that all this stuff 
about Brobdignag raspberries is to ward off your 
suit over the plum tree ? ” said the lawyer. “ Mr. 
Grant is sharp enough to know that he will be 
worsted in your suit, and that he must pay you a 
good round sum for damages if it goes on.” 

“ Damages ! ” • said Oakly, staring round him at 
the plum tree ; “ but I don’t ask for any good round 
sum. The plum tree has done me no great harm 
by running its roots into my garden, only I don’t 
choose they shall come there without my leave.” 

“ Well, well,” said the attorney, “ I understand all 
that ; but what I would have you see is that this 
Grant and his son simply want to make up matters 
with you, and prevent the thing coming to a fair 
trial, by sending you, in this underhand sort of way, 
a bribe of a few raspberries.” 

“ A bribe ! ” exclaimed Oakly ; “ I never took a 
bribe, and I never will ; ” and with sudden indigna- 
tion he pulled the raspberry plants from the ground 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 9 


130 


in which Arthur was setting them, and threw them 
over the wall into Grant’s garden. 

Maurice had put his tulip, which was in a flower- 
pot, on the top of the wall, in hope that his friend 
Arthur would see it. Alas ! he knew not what a 
dangerous situation he had chosen. One of his 
own Brobdignag raspberry plants, swung by the 
angry arm of Oakly, struck off the head of his 
precious tulip. Arthur, who was full of the thought 
of convincing his father that the lawyer was mis- 
taken in his judgment of Maurice, did not observe 
the fall of the tulip. 

The next day, when Maurice saw his raspberry 
plants scattered on the ground, and his favorite 
tulip broken, he was much astonished, and for some 
moments angry ; but anger with him never lasted 
long. He was convinced that all this must be 
owing to some accident or mistake. He could not 
believe that any one would injure him on purpose ; 
“ and, even if they did,” said he to himself, “ the best 
thing I can do is not to let it vex me.” 

Tulips were at this time of great consequence 
in the estimation of the country round where 
Maurice and Arthur lived. There was a florists’ 
show to be held at the neighboring town, and a 


31 


prize of a handsome set of gardening tools was to 
be given to the person who could produce the 
finest flower. Arthur’s tulip was beautiful. As he 
examined it from day to day, and every day thought 
it improving, he longed to thank his friend Maurice 
for it ; and he often mounted into the crab tree to 
look into Mau- 
rice’s garden, hop- 
ing to see his 
tulip also in full 
bloom and beauty. 

He never could 
see it. 

The day of the 
florists’ show ar- 
rived, and Oakly 
went with his son 
to the place of 

Maurice congratulating Arthur 

meeting, and they 

carried the tulip with them. The flowers, of various 
sorts, were ranged on a terrace at the upper end of 
the town green, and amid all this gay array the 
tulip Maurice had given to Arthur appeared con- 
spicuously beautiful. To the owner of this tulip 
the prize was adjudged; and, as the handsome 



132 


garden tools were delivered to Arthur, he heard a 
well-known voice wish him joy. He looked about 
and saw his friend Maurice. 

“ But, Maurice, where is your own tulip ? ” in- 
quired Mr. Oakly. “ I thought Arthur told me 
you kept one for yourself.” 

“ So I did,” said Maurice ; “ but somebody broke 
it.” 

“ Somebody ! Who ? ” cried Arthur and Mr. 
Oakly at once. 

“ Somebody who threw the raspberry plants back 
over the wall,” replied Maurice. 

“ That was me — that somebody was me,” said 
Mr. Oakly. “ But I did not intend to hurt your 
tulip, Maurice.” 

“ Dear Maurice,” said Arthur, “ it is you who 
ought to have these garden tools. Take them and 
welcome.” 

“Not one of them,” said Maurice, drawing back. 

“ Offer them to the father. Offer them to Mr. 
Grant,” whispered Oakly. “ He’ll take them. I’ll 
answer for it.” 

Oakly was mistaken. The father would not ac- 
cept the tools. Mr. Oakly stood surprised. “ Cer- 
tainly,” said he to himself, “this cannot be such 


133 


a miser as I took him for;” and he immediately 
walked up to Grant and bluntly said, “ Mr. Grant, 
your son has behaved very handsomely to my son, 
and you seem to be glad of it.” 

“To be sure I am,” replied Grant. 

“ That gives me a better opinion of you than 
ever I have had before,” continued Oakly — “I 
mean than ever I have had since that day you sent 
me the shabby answer about those foolish what- 
d’ye-call-’em raspberries.” 

“ What shabby answer ? ” Grant asked ; and 
Oakly repeated exactly the message which he had 
received. 

Grant declared he never sent any such message. 
He told the answer he had really made, and Oakly 
stretched out his hand to him, exclaiming: “I be- 
lieve you ! No more need be said. I’m only sorry 
I did not ask you about this four months ago. We 
may thank this good little fellow,” continued he, 
turning to Maurice, ‘‘for our coming at last to a 
right understanding. Shake hands, boys. I’m glad 
to see you, Arthur, look so happy again.” 

From this time forward, the two families lived in 
friendship with each other. Oakly laughed at his 
folly in having been persuaded to go to law about 


134 


the plum tree; and in process of time he so com- 
pletely conquered his early prejudice against Scotch- 
men that he and Grant became partners in business. 
The two boys rejoiced in this family union, and 
Arthur often declared that they owed all their 
happiness to Maurice’s favorite maxim, “ Forgive 
and forget.” 


THE FALSE KEY 

Mr. Spencer, a very benevolent and sensible 
man, undertook the education of several poor chil- 
dren. Among the rest was a boy named Franklin, 
whom he bred up from the time he was five years 
old. Franklin had the misfortune to be the son 
of a man of infamous character, and for many 
years this was a disgrace and reproach to the child. 
When any of the neighbors’ children quarreled 
with him, they used to tell him he would turn out 
like his father. But Mr. Spencer assured him that 
he might make himself whatever he pleased ; that 
by behaving well he would certainly, sooner or 
later, secure the esteem and love of all who knew 
him, even of those who had the strongest prejudice 
against him on his father’s account. 


135 


This hope was very delightful to Franklin, and 
he showed the keenest desire to learn and to do 
everything that was right, so that Mr. Spencer soon 
grew fond of him, and took great pains to instruct 
him, and to give him all the good habits and princi- 
ples which might 
make him a use- 
ful, respectable, 
and happy man. 

When he was 
about thirteen 
years of age, Mr. 

Spencer one day 
sent for him to 
come to his study, 
and, while he 
folded up a letter 
he had been writing, said with a very kind look, 
but in a graver tone than usual, “ Franklin, you are 
going to leave me to begin the world for yourself. 
You will carry this letter to my sister, Mrs. Churchill, 
in Queen’s Square. She is to be your mistress.” 

Franklin bowed. “You must expect,” continued 
Mr. Spencer, “ to meet with disagreeable things 
and a great deal of rough work ; but be faithful and 



Mr. Spencer and Franklin 


136 


obedient to your mistress, and obliging to your 
fellow-servants, and all will go well.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Franklin, and there stopped 
short, overcome by the recollection of all Mr. 
Spencer’s goodness, and he left the room without 
being able to speak further. 

At Queen’s Square, the door was opened by the 
butler, a large, red-faced man in a blue coat and 
scarlet waistcoat. “ Well, what’s your business ? ” 
asked the butler. 

“ I have a letter for Mrs. Churchill, sir,” said 
Franklin. 

The butler, having examined the letter, carried 
it upstairs, and in a few minutes returned, and 
ordered Franklin to rub his shoes well and follow 
him. Franklin was then shown into a handsome 
room, where he found the elderly lady who was to 
be his mistress. She asked him a few questions, 
and, though she was severe at first, she was so gra- 
cious afterward, that she made him feel she was a 
person to be both loved and feared. “ I shall put 
you in charge of Mrs. Pomfret, my housekeeper,” 
said she, ringing a bell, “ and I hope she will have 
no reason to be displeased with you.” 

The housekeeper came in with a smiling coun- 


137 


tenance; but the moment she cast her eyes on 
Franklin her look changed to surprise and sus- 
picion, and when her mistress recommended him to 
her protection she received him coldly, and plainly 
showed she was not disposed to like him. Mrs. 
Pomfret, however, smothered her displeasure till 
night. Then, while she was attending to her mis- 
tress’s toilet, she could not refrain from expressing 
her sentiments. She began cautiously, “ Ma’am, 
is not this the boy Mr. Spencer was talking of one 
day, who has been brought up by the Villaintropic 
Society ? ” 

“ By the Philanthropic Society, yes,” said her 
mistress ; “ and my brother gives him a high char- 
acter.” 

“ Pve no great notion of those people,” observed 
Mrs. Pomfret. “ They say all the children are from 
the very lowest dregs of the town, and surely they 
are like enough to take after their own fathers and 
mothers.” 

“ But they are not allowed to be with their 
parents,” rejoined the lady, “and this little boy has 
had an excellent education.” 

“ Oh, to be sure, ma’am, edication is a great 
thing, but edication can’t change the natur’ that’s 


in one ; and one that’s born naturally bad and low, 
all the edication in the world won’t do no good. 
So, for my part, ma’am, I should be afraid to let 
any of those Villaintropic folks get into my house. 
I declare it frights me.” 

“ Pomfret, I thought you had better sense,” the 
lady responded. “ How would this poor boy earn 
his bread if everybody had such prejudices.^ He 
would be forced to starve or steal.” 

Pomfret was softened at this idea and said, “ God 
forbid he should starve or steal, and God forbid I 
should say anything prejudiciary of the boy.” 

“ Well, Pomfret,” said Mrs. Churchill, changing 
her tone, “ I have only promised Mr. Spencer to 
keep him a month. There is no harm done.” 

“ Dear, no, ma’am ; and the cook must put up 
with her disappointment, — that’s all.” 

“ What disappointment ? ” inquired the lady. 

“ About her nephew, ma’am, — the boy she and 
I was speaking to you for.” 

“ When.?” 

“ The day you called her up about the almond 
pudding, ma’am. If you remember, you said you 
would have no objections to try the boy ; and upon 
that the cook bought him new shirts.” 


139 


“ But I did not promise to take her nephew.” 

“ Oh, no, ma’am, not at all ; but the poor woman 
frets that the boy should miss the chance to try for 
such a good place.” 

“Well, since I said that I would have no objec- 
tion to try him, let him come to-morrow to stay for 
a month, and at the end of that time I can decide 
which boy we had better keep.” 

Dismissed with these orders, Mrs. Pomfret has- 
tened to report all that had passed to the cook, 
proud to display the extent of her influence. In 
the morning Felix, the cook’s nephew, arrived; and 
the moment he came into the kitchen every eye 
was fixed on him with approbation, and afterward 
turned on Franklin with contempt, — contempt 
which Franklin could not endure without some 
confusion, though quite unconscious of having de- 
served it. Comparisons were made in audible and 
scornful whispers, and he perceived that Felix was, 
as the kitchenmaid expressed it, “a much more 
genteeler, gentlemanly-looking-like sort of person ” 
than he was ; and he was made to understand that 
he lacked a frill to his shirt, a pair of thin shoes, 
and other advantages which justly made his rival 
the admiration of the kitchen. He could only com- 


140 


fort himself with resolving, if possible, to make 
amends for his deficiencies by strict adherence to 
duty. He hoped to secure the approval of his mis- 
tress by scrupulous obedience, and he flattered him- 
self he would win the goodwill of his fellow-servants 
by showing a constant desire to oblige them. 

He pursued this plan of conduct steadily for 
nearly three weeks, and found that he succeeded 
beyond his expectations in pleasing his mistress ; 
but it was more difficult to please his fellow-servants, 
and he sometimes offended when he least expected 
it. He had made great progress in the affections 
of Corkscrew, the butler, by working very hard for 
him, and doing every day fully half his business. 
But, one unfortunate night, the mistress’s bell rang 
for the butler when he had gone out. Franklin 
went upstairs, and, being asked where Corkscrew 
was, he answered that he was gone out. “ Where 
to ? ” said his mistress. 

“ I don’t know,” was Franklin’s reply. 

At the butler’s return, he reported to him what 
had passed, and, as he had told the truth and 
meant to do no harm, he was surprised to receive 
a sudden box on the ear, and to be called a 
mischievous, impertinent, mean-spirited brat. 


“ Mischievous, impertinent, mean ! ” repeated 
Franklin to himself; but, looking in the butler’s 
face, which was of a deeper scarlet than usual, he 
judged that he was 
far from sober, and 
did not doubt that 
the next morning he 
would be sensible of 
his injustice. 

On the following 
day Franklin ven- 
tured to ask the butler 
what he had best do 
on such an occasion 
in the future. “ How 
came you to say I 
was gone out, when 
the mistress asked for me ? ” said Corkscrew. 

“ Because I saw you go out.” 

“ And when she asked you where I was gone, 
how came you to say that you did not know ? ” 

“ Because I did not.” 

“You are a stupid blockhead. Could not you 
say I was gone to the washerwoman’s ? ” 

“ But were you ? ” said Franklin. 



The butler boxing Franklin’s ears 


42 


“Was I ! ” cried Corkscrew, and looked as if he 
would have struck him. “ How dare you give 
me the lie.f^ *You would be ready enough, I’ll 
be bound, to make excuses for yourself. Why 
are not mistress’s shoes cleaned Go along and 
blacken ’em this minute and send Felix to 
me.” 

From this time forward, Felix became the 
favorite of Corkscrew. He was, of course, also 
the favorite of his aunt, the cook. Many a hand- 
ful of currants, many a half custard, many a tri- 
angular remnant of pie, fell to him, while Franklin 
was neglected, though he took the utmost pains 
to please the cook, and when she was hot, angry, 
or hurried, he was always at hand to help her. 
Yet at meal time the ungrateful cook would throw 
him carelessly anything which the other servants 
were too nice to eat. 

All this Franklin bore with fortitude; nor did 
he envy Felix the dainties he devoured; “for I 
have a clear conscience,” said he to himself, “ and 
that is more than Felix can have. I know how 
he wins the cook’s favor, and I fancy I know 
how I have offended her.” 

What he referred to was this : Mrs. Pomfret, the 


143 


housekeeper, had several times, directly and in- 
directly, given the other servants to understand 
that she and her mistress thought there was a 
prodigious quantity of meat eaten of late. When 
she spoke, it was usually at dinner-time, and 
Franklin imagined that she always looked sus- 
piciously at him. One Sunday there appeared a 
handsome sirloin of beef, which before noon on 
Monday had shrunk almost to the bare bone, and 
presented such a deplorable spectacle to the eyes 
of Mrs. Pomfret that her long-smothered indigna- 
tion burst forth. She boldly declared she was 
now certain there had been foul play, and she 
would have the beef found, or she would know why. 
Franklin, with a sudden look of recollection, cried, 
“ Did I not see a piece of beef in a basket in the 
dairy ? ” 

The cook, as if somebody had smote her a deadly 
blow, grew pale, but, recovering the use of her 
speech, turned on Franklin and told him he had 
seen nothing of the sort. Then she took Mrs. 
Pomfret by the ruffle and led the way to the dairy, 
declaring she could defy the world, — so she could 
and would. “ There, ma’am,” said she, kicking 
an empty basket which lay on the floor, “ask 


144 


him why he don’t show you the beef in the 
basket.” 

“ I thought I saw” — poor Franklin began. 

“ You thought you saw ! ” cried the cook, coming 
close up to him with menacing arms, and looking 
like a dragon. “ What business has such a one as 
you to think you see ? ” and, turning to the house- 
keeper, she added, “ Pray, ma’am, will you be pleased 
to forbid him my dairy, for here he comes prying 
and spying about ; and how, ma’am, am I to answer 
for my butter and cream, or anything at all ? I’m 
sure it’s what I can’t pretend to, unless you do me 
the justice to forbid him my places.” 

Mrs. Pomfret, whose eyes were blinded by her 
prejudices, and also by her secret jealousy of a 
boy whom she deemed to be a growing favorite of 
her mistress, took part with the cook, and ended 
with a firm persuasion that Franklin was the guilty 
person. “ Let him alone ! ” said she. “ He has as 
many turns and windings as a hare ; but we shall 
catch him yet in some of his doublings. I knew 
the nature of him well enough the first time I ever 
set eyes on him ; but mistress shall have her own 
way, and see the end of it.” 

These words, and the bitter sense of injustice, 


145 


drew tears down the cheeks of Franklin, which 
might possibly have touched Mrs. Pomfret if Felix, 
with a sneer, had not called them crocodile tears. 
Till now, Felix had professed himself his firm ally, 
and Franklin had done Felix many a friendly turn; 
for every other morning, when it was Felix’s turn 
to get the breakfast, Felix never was up in decent 
time, and must inevitably have come to public dis- 
grace if Franklin had not got all the breakfast 
things ready for him, the bread buttered and the 
toast toasted. More than that, when the clock 
struck eight, and Mrs. Pomfret’s footsteps were 
heard overhead, he had to run and call the sleeping 
Felix, and help him through the hurry of getting 
dressed before the housekeeper came downstairs. 

The hour of retribution was, however, not so far 
off as Felix imagined. Cunning people may go on 
cleverly in their devices for some time ; but though 
they may escape once, twice, perhaps ninety-nine 
times, the hundredth time they come to shame and 
lose all their character. Grown bold by frequent 
success, Felix became more careless in his opera- 
tions; and it happened that one day he met his 
mistress full in the passage as he was starting on a 
secret errand of the cook’s. 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT lO 


146 


“Where are you going, Felix?” asked Mrs. 
Churchill. 

“To the washerwoman’s, ma’am,” he replied. 

“Very well,” said she; “stop at the bookseller’s 
in — Stay, I must write down the address. Pom- 
fret ! ” she called, opening the door of the house- 
keeper’s room, “ have you a bit of writing paper ? ” 

Pomfret came with the writing paper, and looked 
very angry to see that Felix was going out without 
her knowledge. So, while Mrs. Churchill was writ- 
ing the address, she stood talking to him ; and he 
looked up in her face as she spoke, but was all the 
time intent on parrying the attacks of a little 
French dog of his mistress’s, named Manchon, which, 
unluckily’ for him, had followed her into the passage. 
Manchon was extremely fond of Felix, who, by way 
of pleasing his mistress, had paid most assiduous 
court to her dog ; yet now the dog’s caresses were 
rather troublesome. Manchon leaped up, and was 
not to be rebuffed. “Poor fellow! poor fellow I 
Down 1 down I poor fellow I ” cried Felix, and put 
the dog away. 

But Manchon leaped up again, and began smell- 
ing near a certain pocket in a most alarming man- 
ner. His mistress had now finished writing and 


147 


said: “You will see by this address where you are 
to go — Manchon, come here ! — and you will be so 
good as to bring me — Down ! down ! Manchon, 
be quiet ! ” 

Instead of obeying, Manchon poked his head into 
Felix’s pocket and drew thence, rustling out of a 
wrapping of brown 
paper, about a 
quarter of a cold 
turkey, which had 
been missing 
since morning. 

“ My cold tur- 
key, as I’m alive!’ 
exclaimed the 
housekeeper, seiz- 

ing it, with horror Manchon finding the turkey 

and amazement. 

“ What is all this ? ” questioned Mrs. Churchill, in 
a composed voice. 

“ I don’t know, ma’am,” answered Felix, so con- 
fused that he could not think what to say ; “ but — ” 

“ But what ? ” cried Mrs. Pomfret, indignation 
flashing from her eyes. 

“ But what ? ” repeated his mistress, waiting for 



148 

his reply with a calm air of attention, which still 
more disconcerted Felix. 

He was struck durnb. “ Speak ! ” said Mrs. 
Churchill. “ I am ready to hear all you have to 
say. In my house everybody shall have justice. 
Speak — but what ? ” 

Felix, finding he could not at the moment invent 
any plausible deception, confessed that he was going 
to take the turkey to a cousin’s; but he threw all 
the blame on his aunt, the cook, who, he said, had 
ordered him on this expedition. 

The cook was now summoned; but she totally 
denied all knowledge of the affair, with the same 
violence that she had displayed when she con- 
founded Franklin about the beef in the basket; not, 
however, with the same success ; for Felix, perceiv- 
ing his mistress was on the point of dismissing 
him from her service, did not hesitate to confront 
his aunt with assurance equal to her own. He 
knew how to bring his charge home to her. He 
produced a note in her own handwriting, the pur- 
port of which was to request her cousin’s accept- 
ance of “some delicate cold turkey,” and to beg 
she would send her, by the return of the bearer, 
a little of her cherry brandy. 


Mrs. Churchill coolly wrote on the back of the 
note her cook’s discharge, and informed Felix she 
had no further occasion for his services ; but on his 
pleading with many tears that he was so young, and 
that he had been under the dominion of his aunt, 
he obtained permission to stay till the end of the 
month, to give him a chance of redeeming his 
character. 

Mrs. Pomfret, seeing how far she had been im- 
posed on, resolved for the future to be more on her 
guard with Felix. She felt that she had treated 
Franklin with great injustice, and was now prepared 
to see everything he did in the most favorable light, 
especially as, the next day, she discovered that it was 
he who every morning boiled the water for her tea 
and buttered her toast, — services for which she had 
always thought' she was indebted to Felix. 

But, passing over a number of small incidents 
that gradually unfolded the character of the two 
boys, we must proceed to a more serious affair. 

Corkscrew, after he had finished taking away the 
supper, and after the housekeeper had gone to 
bed, frequently sallied forth to a neighboring ale- 
house to drink with his friends. He kept the key 
of the house door, so that he could return home at 


ISO 

what hour he thought proper ; and if he should by 
accident be called for by his mistress after supper, 
Felix knew how to make excuses for him. 

All these precautions taken, the butler was at 
liberty to give free rein to his favorite passion, 
which so increased with indulgence that his wages 
were by no means sufficient to support him in this 
way of life. Every day he felt less resolution to 
break through his bad habits, for every day drink- 
ing became more necessary to him. His health 
was ruined. In the morning, when he got up, his 
hands trembled, his spirits flagged, and he could do 
nothing till he had taken a dram, — an operation he 
was obliged to repeat several times in the course 
of the day. 

He had run up a long bill at the alehouse, and 
the landlord grew urgent for his' money. One 
night, when Corkscrew had drunk enough only to 
make him fretful, he leaned with his elbow surlily 
on the table and began to quarrel with the landlord, 
and swore that he had not of late treated him like 
a gentleman. The landlord replied that, as long as 
he had paid like a gentleman, he had been treated 
like one ; and that was as much as anybody could 
expect in this world. For the truth of this asser- 


51 


tion he appealed, laughing, to a party of men who 
were drinking in the room. The men, however, 
took part with Corkscrew, and, drawing him over 
to their table, made him sit down with them. They 
were in high good-humor, and the butler was soon 
so intimate with them that, in the openness of his 
heart, he soon communicated to them not only all 
his own affairs, but all that he knew of his mis- 
tress’s. 

His new friends encouraged him as much as 
possible to talk, for they had secret plans which 
the butler was not sufficiently sober to discover. 

Mrs. Churchill had some fine old family plate, 
and these men belonged to a gang of housebreakers. 
Before they parted with Corkscrew, they engaged 
him to meet them again the next night, when 
their intimacy was still more closely cemented. 
One of the men actually offered to lend Corkscrew 
three guineas toward the payment of his debt, and 
hinted that, if the butler thought proper, he could 
easily get the whole cleared off. On this hint. Cork- 
screw became all attention, till, after some hesitation 
on their part, and repeated promises of secrecy on 
his, they at length disclosed their plans to him. 
They gave him to understand that, if he would 


152 


assist in letting them into his mistress’s house, they 
would give him an ample share of the booty. 

The butler, who had the reputation of being an 
honest man, turned pale and trembled at this pro- 
posal, drank two or three bumpers to drown 
thought, and agreed to return an answer the next 
day. He went home more than half intoxicated. 
His mind was so full of what had passed he could 
not help bragging to Felix, whom he found awake, 
that he could have his bill paid off at the alehouse 
whenever he pleased ; dropping, besides, some hints 
which were not lost on Felix. 

In the morning Felix reminded him of the things 
he had said ; and Corkscrew, alarmed, endeavored 
to evade his questions by saying he was not in his 
senses when he had talked in that manner. Nothing, 
however, he could urge, made any impression on 
Felix, whose recollection on the subject was per- 
fectly distinct, and who had too much cunning him- 
self, and too little confidence in his companion, to 
be the dupe of his dissimulation. The butler knew 
not what to do when he saw that Felix was abso- 
lutely determined either to betray the scheme, or 
to become a sharer in the spoils. 

The next night came, and he was now to make 


153 


a final decision, either to break off entirely with 
his new acquaintances, or allow Felix to join in 
the plot. 

His debt, his love of drinking, the impossibility 
of indulging it without a fresh supply of money, all 
came into his mind at once and conquered his 
remaining scruples, and Corkscrew went to the 
alehouse. There he found the housebreakers 
waiting for him, and a glass of brandy ready 
poured out. He sighed, drank, hesitated, drank 
again, heard the landlord talk of his bill, saw the 
money produced which would pay it in a moment, 
drank again, cursed himself, and, giving his hand 
to the villain who was whispering in his ear, de- 
clared that he could not help it and must do as 
they would have him. 

They required him to lend them the key of the 
house door, that they might get another made by it. 
He had left it with Felix, and was now obliged to 
explain the fresh difficulty which had arisen. Felix 
knew enough to ruin them, and must therefore be 
won over. This was no very hard task. He had a 
strong desire to have some embroidered cravats, 
and the butler was confident that these would be 
a sufficient bribe. The cravats were bought and 


154 


shown to Felix. He thought them the only things 
wanting to make him a complete, fine gentleman; 
and to go without them, especially when he had 
once seen himself in the glass with one tied on in 
a splendid bow, appeared impossible. This paltry 
temptation, working on his vanity, easily prevailed 


with a boy whose in- 
tegrity had long been 
corrupted by habits 
of petty pilfering and 
daily falsehood. It 
was agreed that, the 
first time his mistress 
sent him out on a 
message, he should 
carry the key of the 



Felix tempted 


house door to the inn and deliver it into the hands 
of one of the gang, who would be there waiting for 
it. Such was the scheme. 

Felix, the night after all this had been planned, 
went to bed and fell fast asleep ; but the butler, who 
had not yet stifled the voice of conscience, felt, in 
the silence of the night, insupportably miserable 
and instead of going to rest, he stole away to the 
inn, and there, drinking glass after glass, stayed till 


155 


he became so Intoxicated that, though he contrived 
to find his way back to bed, he could by no means 
undress himself. So he lay down on the bed, leav- 
ing his candle half hanging out of the candlestick 
beside him. 

Franklin slept in the next room, and, presently 
awaking, thought he perceived a strong smell of 
something burning. He jumped up, and, seeing a 
light under the butler’s door, gently opened it. 
To his astonishment, he beheld one of the bed 
curtains in flames. He immediately ran to the 
butler and pulled him with all his force, to rouse 
him from his lethargy. The butler came to his 
senses, indeed, but was so terrified as to be helpless. 
Felix, trembling and cowardly, now came in. He 
knew not what to do, and Franklin hurried upstairs 
to awaken Mrs. Pomfret. Her terror of fire was so 
great that she came from her room almost out of 
her senses, while he, recollecting where he had seen 
two large tubs of water the maids had prepared the 
evening before for their washing, seized the wet 
linen which had been left to soak, and threw it on 
the flames. He exerted himself with so much good 
sense that the fire was shortly extinguished. 

Everything was now once more safe and quiet. 


156 


Mrs. Pomfret, recovering from her fright, postponed 
all inquiries till the morning, and rejoiced that her 
mistress had not been awakened. As for Corkscrew, 
he flattered himself that he would be able to conceal 
the true cause of the accident. 

“ Don’t you tell Mrs. Pomfret where you found 
the candle when you came into the room,” said he 
to Franklin. 

“ If she asks me, you know I must tell the truth,” 
replied he. 

“Must!” repeated Felix, sneeringly. “What! 
You must be a telltale!” 

“ No,” Franklin responded, “ I never tell tales of 
anybody, and I should be very sorry to get any one 
into a scrape ; but, for all that, I shall not tell a lie, 
either for myself or anybody else, let you call me 
what names you will.” 

“ But if I were to give you something that you 
would like ? ” said Corkscrew. 

“ Nothing you can give me will do,” answered 
Franklin, steadily. “ So it is useless to say any 
more about it.” 

The first thing Mrs. Pomfret did in the morning 
was to come into the butler’s room to examine and 
deplore the burnt curtains, while Corkscrew stood 


157 


by, endeavoring to acquit himself by all the excuses 
he could invent. Mrs. Pomfret, though sometimes 
blinded by her prejudices, was no fool; and she 
refused to believe that a candle on the hearth, 
where Corkscrew protested he had left it, could 
have set curtains on fire which were at least six feet 
distant. Turning short round to Franklin, she 
desired that he 
would show her 
where he found 
the candle when 
he came into the 
room. 

He begged not 
to be questioned; 
but she insisted, 
and he took up 

Mrs. Pomfret examining the candlestick 

the candlestick. 

The moment the housekeeper cast her eyes on it, 
she snatched it from his hands. 

“ How did this candlestick come here ? This is 
not the candlestick you found here last night,” cried 
she. 

“Yes, indeed it is,” Franklin replied. 

“That is impossible,” retorted she, vehemently. 



158 


“ for I left this candlestick last night in the hall with 
my own hands after Mr. Corkscrew had gone to 
bed.” Then turning to the butler, she added, “ I’m 
sure of it. Don’t you recollect my taking this 
japanned candlestick out of your hand, and making 
you go up to bed with the brass one, and I bolted 
the door at the stairhead after you ? ” 

This was all very true ; but Corkscrew had later 
gone down from his room by a back staircase, and, 
on his return from the alehouse, had taken the 
japanned candlestick upstairs, by mistake, and left 
the brass one in its stead on the hall table. 

“ Oh, ma’am,” said Felix, “ you forget ; for Mr. 
Corkscrew came into my room to desire me to call 
him betimes in the morning, and I happened to 
take particular notice he had the japanned candle- 
stick in his hand ; and that was just as I heard you 
bolting the door.” 

“ Indeed, sir,” retorted Mrs. Pomfret in anger, “ I 
do not forget. How dare you tell me I forget ? ” 

“ I beg your pardon,” cried Felix. “ I did not 
mean to say you forgot, but only I thought per- 
haps you might not particularly remember.” 

“ Hold your tongue! ” exclaimed the housekeeper. 
“ Why should you poke yourself into this scrape ? 


159 


What have you to do with it I would be glad to 
know ? ” 

“ Nothing in the world, oh, nothing in the world, 
ma’am,” answered Felix in a soft tone ; and, sneak- 
ing off, he left his friend Corkscrew to fight his own 
battle, secretly resolving to desert in good time if 
he saw any danger of the alehouse transactions 
coming to light. 

Corkscrew could make but very blundering 
excuses for himself ; and, conscious of guilt, he 
appeared so terrified that Mrs. Pomfret resolved 
to sift the matter to the bottom. Impatiently did 
she wait till her mistress’s bell rang, the signal for 
her attendance. 

“ How do you find yourself this morning, 
ma’am said she, drawing back the bed curtains. 

“Very sleepy, indeed,” answered her mistress, in 
a drowsy voice. “ I think I will not rise for half 
an hour longer.” 

“ But I have something to tell you, ma’am,” cried 
Mrs. Pomfret, “which I’ll be bound won’t let you 
sleep again in a hurry. I brought up this key 
of the house door for reasons of my own. I hope 
you were not disturbed by the noise in the house 
last night, ma’am ? ” 


i6o 


“ I heard no noise.” 

“ I am surprised at that,” continued Mrs. Pomfret, 
and proceeded to give a most ample account of 
the fire, of her fears, and her suspicions. “ What 
I say, ma’am,” said she in conclusion, “ is that 
I’m quite clear, in my own judgment, that Mr. 
Corkscrew must have been out last night after I 
went to bed. Besides the japanned candlestick 
there’s another circumstance, ma’am, that certifies it 
to me. Franklin told me that he left the lantern in 
the outside porch last night, and this morning it 
was on the kitchen table. Now, ma’am, that lan- 
tern could not come there without hands, and 
Franklin says he’s sure he left the lantern out.” 

“And do you believe hini.r^” inquired her mis- 
tress. 

“ To be sure, ma’am. How can I help believing 
him ? I never found him out in the least symptom 
of a lie since he came into the house. So one 
can’t help believing him, like him or not.” 

Mrs. Churchill smiled. 

“ I’m sure we may thank him that we were not 
burned alive in our beds,” added the housekeeper. 
“ And if you had seen him last night you would 
think he deserved to be rewarded.” 


i6i 

“ And so he shall be rewarded,” said Mrs. 
Churchill ; “ but I will try him more fully yet.” 

“ There’s no occasion, I think, for trying him any 
more, ma’am,” said Mrs. Pomfret, who was as vio- 
lent in her likings as in her dislikes. 

“ Pray desire that he will bring up breakfast 
this morning,” said her mistress; “and you may 
leave the key of the house door with me, 
Pomfret.” 

When Franklin came into the breakfast room, 
his mistress was standing by the fire with the key 
in her hand. She spoke to him of his last night’s 
exertions in terms of much approbation. 

“ How long have you lived with me ? ” she asked 
presently. 

“ Three weeks and four days, madam.” 

“ That is a short time,” was her comment ; “ yet 
you have conducted yourself so as to make me 
think I may depend on you. You know this 
key?” 

“ I believe, madam, it is the key of the house 
door.” 

“ It is, and I shall trust it in your care. Remem- 
ber, I do this on condition that you never give it 
out of your own hands. In the daytime it must 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 1 1 


not be left in the door ; nor are you to tell anybody 
where you keep it at night ; and the door must not 
be unlocked after eleven o’clock at night unless by 
my orders. Will you take charge of the key on 
these conditions ? ” 

“ I will do anything you order me to do,” said 
Franklin, and received the key. 

When Mrs. Churchill’s orders were made known, 
they caused many secret marvelings and murmur- 
ings among the servants. Corkscrew and Felix 
were disconcerted, but dared not openly avow their 
vexation, and they treated Franklin with the great- 
est seeming kindness and cordiality. 

Everything went on smoothly for three days. 
The butler never attempted his usual midnight 
visits to the alehouse, but went to bed in proper 
time, and paid particular court to Mrs. Pomfret in 
order to dispel her suspicions. She had never had 
any idea of the fact that he and Felix were joined 
in a plot with housebreakers, but thought he only 
went out at irregular hours to indulge himself in 
his passion for drinking. 

Thus affairs stood till, one evening. Corkscrew 
ventured to present a petition to Mrs. Churchill 
that he might go to the theater the next night, 


and his request was granted. Franklin came 
into the kitchen just when all the servants had 
gathered round the butler, who, with great impor- 
tance, was reading aloud the play-bill. Felix, in the 
first pause, turned to Franklin and said, “ You 
know nothing of all this. You never went to a 
play, did you ? ” 

“ Never,” replied Franklin. 

“ How would you like to go to the play with me 
to-morrow ? ” Corkscrew asked. 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Franklin, “ I would like it ex- 
ceedingly.” 

“ But you have no money, have you ? ” said Felix. 

“No,” responded Franklin, sighing. 

“ If mistress will let you go. I’ll pay for your 
ticket myself,” declared Corkscrew, “rather than 
that you should be disappointed.” 

Delight, surprise, and gratitude appeared in 
Franklin’s face at these words. Corkscrew rejoiced 
to see that he had found a powerful temptation. 
He stepped out into the passage, where he would 
have more privacy, and beckoned Franklin and 
Felix to follow him. “Well,” said he, “I’ll go 
and ask mistress. In the meantime, lend me the 
key of the house door for a minute or two.” 


164 


“ The key ! ” answered Franklin, starting. “ I’m 
sorry, but I can’t lend you that, for I’ve promised 
my mistress never to let it out of my hands.” 

“ But how will she know anything of the matter ? 
Run and get it for me.” 

“ No, I cannot,” replied Franklin, resisting the 
push which the butler gave his shoulder. 

“You can’t cried Corkscrew, changing his 
tone. “ Then I can’t take you to the play.” 

“ Very well, sir,” said Franklin, sorrowfully. 

“ Very well, sir,” said Felix, mimicking him. 
“You need not fancy yourself such a great man 
because you’re master of a key.” 

“ Let him alone to take his own way,” interrupted 
Corkscrew. “ Felix, you would have no objection, 
I suppose, to going to the play with me ? ” 

“ Oh, I would like it of all things. But come, 
come ! ” added the hypocrite, assuming a tone of 
friendly persuasion, “You won’t be such a block- 
head, Franklin, as to lose going to the play for 
nothing. It’s only just obstinacy. What harm 
can it do to lend Mr. Corkscrew the key for five 
minutes.'^ He’ll give it back to you safe and 
sound.” 

“ I don’t doubt that,” answered Franklin. 


i65 


“ Then it must be all because you don’t wish 
to oblige Mr. Corkscrew.” 

“ No, but I can’t oblige him in this, for I prom- 
ised never to let the key out of my own hands,” 
and he walked away. 

“We shall make nothing of this prig,” said 
Corkscrew. 

“But we’ll have the key in spite of him,” said 
Felix ; “ and let him make his story good if he 
can afterward. He shall repent of these airs. 
To-night I’ll watch him and find out where he 
hides the key, and when he’s asleep we’ll get it.” 

This plan they put in execution. They dis- 
covered the place where Franklin kept the key 
at night, stole it while he slept, took an impression 
in wax, and carefully replaced it in Franklin’s trunk 
exactly where they found it. By means of the 
impression thus obtained. Corkscrew and Felix pro- 
posed to get a false key made by Picklock, a smith 
who belonged to their gang of housebreakers; and 
with this false key they knew they could open the 
door whenever they pleased. 

Franklin, the next morning, went to unlock the 
house door as usual, but, the key became entangled 
in the lock, and when he took it out to examine it he 


perceived a lump of wax sticking in one of the wards. 
Struck with this circumstance, it brought to mind 
all that had passed the preceding evening, and, 
being sure that he had had no wax near the key, 
he began to suspect what had happened. So he 
resolved to take the key just as it was, with the 
wax sticking in it, to his mistress. 

“ I was not mistaken when I thought I might 
trust you with this key,” said Mrs. Churchill, after 
she had heard his story. “ My brother will be here 
to-day, and I shall consult him. Meanwhile, say 
nothing of what has passed.” 

Evening came, and after Mrs. Churchill and 
Mr. Spencer had finished tea they sent fgr Frank- 
lin. “ Fm glad to find you are in such high trust 
in this family,” said Mr. Spencer. “ Have Cork- 
screw and Felix gone to the play.?” 

“Yes, sir, half an hour ago.” 

“ Then I shall look into the butler’s room ; and 
I want to examine the pantry, and the plate that is 
under his care.” 

Mrs. Pomfret accompanied him. When they 
entered the pantry, they found the large salvers 
and cups in a basket behind the door, and the 
other things placed so as to be easily carried off. 


167 


Nothing at first appeared in Corkscrew’s bed- 
chamber to strengthen their suspicions till, just 
as they were going to leave the room, Mrs. Pom- 
fret exclaimed, “Why, if there is not Mr. Cork- 
screw’s dress-coat hanging up there ! And if here 



Franklin before Mrs. Churchill and Mr. Spencer 


isn’t Felix’s fine cravat that he wanted in such a 
hurry to wear to the play! Sir, they can’t be 
gone to the play. No, sir! No! You may be sure 
they are plotting with some barbarous gang at 
the alehouse ; and they’ll certainly break in here 
to-night. We shall all be murdered in our beds.” 


“Good Mrs. Pomfret, don’t make such a noise; 
for everybody will hear you,” entreated Mr. 
Spencer. 

He now went to a shop within a few doors of 
the alehouse which Corkscrew frequented, and 
sent to beg to speak with the landlord. When 
the landlord came, Mr. Spencer questioned him, 
and he confessed that Corkscrew and Felix were 
actually drinking in his house with two men of 
suspicious appearance, and that as he was passing 
out he heard one of them say, “ Since we’ve got 
the key, we’ll go about it to-night.” 

This was sufficient information, and, lest the 
landlord should let the housebreakers know that 
their plot had been discovered, Mr. Spencer took 
him along, and turned him over to the authori- 
ties. He then returned to Mrs. Churchill’s with a 
constable and proper assistants to stand guard, 
and they stationed themselves in a back parlor 
which opened on a passage leading to the butler’s 
pantry. A little after midnight they heard the 
hall door open. Corkscrew and his accomplices 
went directly to the pantry, and there Mr. Spencer 
and the constable secured them as they were carry- 
ing off their booty. 


69 


Mrs. Churchill and Pomfret spent the night at 
the house of an acquaintance on the same street. 
“Well, ma’am,” said Mrs. Pomfret, who heard 
the news in the morning, “ the villains are all 
caught, thank God ! and we owe it to Franklin. 
That boy has the best heart in the world ; and 
he was so modest, ma’am, when Mr. Spencer told 
him he had done his duty.” 

“ Did my brother tell him what reward I intend 
for him ? ” 

“ No, ma’am, and Pm sure Franklin has never 
thought of a reward.” 

“ I intend,” continued Mrs. Churchill, “ to sell 
some of my useless old plate, and to lay out the 
money in an annuity for Franklin.” 

“ La, ma’am ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret, with 
unfeigned joy, “ Pm sure you are very good, and 
he deserves it. I never was more mistaken at 
the first in any boy in my born days; but he has 
won me by his own deserts, and I shall from this 
time forth love all the Villaintropic folks for his 
sake.” 


I/O 

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT 

“Mamma,” said Rosamond, after a long silence, 
“do you know what I have been thinking of all 
this time?” 

“ No, my dear. What ? ” 

“ About my Cousin Bell’s birthday, mamma. It 
is the day after to-morrow. There is to be a fine 
dinner, and she will have a great many nice new 
playthings given to her.” 

This reminded Rosamond that she needed some 
filigree paper to finish a workbasket she was mak- 
ing for her Cousin Bell as a birthday present. Her 
mother had planned to go out shopping that after- 
noon, and Rosamond asked to go with her, that 
she might buy the filigree paper. They presently 
started, and Rosamond’s sister Laura went also. 

“ Sister,” said Rosamond, as they were walking 
along, “ what have you done with your half 
guinea ? ” 

“ I have it in my pocket,” replied Laura. 

“ Dear me ! you will keep it in your pocket for- 
ever,” was Rosamond’s comment. “You know, 
when my godmother gave it to you, she said you 
would keep it longer than I would keep mine.” 


“Yes,” responded Laura, smiling, “I heard her 
whisper to mother that I was a little miser.” 

“ But did not you hear her' say that I was very 
generous ? ” inquired Rosamond. “ And she’ll see 
that she was not mistaken.” 

At length they came to the shop where the 
filigree paper was to be bought. Shortly before 
they arrived, a coachful of ladies had stopped at 
the door, and the ladies were in the shop trading, 
so that none of the clerks had time immediately to 
think of Rosamond and her filigree paper. It hap- 
pened that the shop was on a corner, and one of the 
windows looked out into a narrow lane. When 
Rosamond found she must wait, she went to this 
window, where she saw her sister Laura gazing 
earnestly into the lane. 

Opposite the window, at the door of a poor-look- 
ing house, sat a little girl weaving lace. Her bob- 
bins moved as quick as lightning, and she never 
lifted her eyes from her work. “ Is not she very 
industrious ? ” said Laura. “ And very honest, too,” 
added she a moment afterward ; for just then a 
baker with a basket of rolls on his head passed, and 
by accident one of the rolls fell close to the little 
girl. She took it up eagerly, looked at it as if she 


1/2 


were hungry, then put her work aside and ran after 
the baker to return it to him. A footman in a 
livery laced with silver, who belonged to the coach 
that stood at the shop door, was lounging near with 
one of his companions. While she was gone he 
chanced to spy the weaving pillow which she had 
left on a stone beside the threshold of her home. 
To divert himself, he took up the pillow and 
entangled all the bobbins. 

The little girl came back out of breath to her 
work ; but what was her surprise and sorrow to 
find it spoiled ! She twisted and untwisted, placed 
and replaced the bobbins, and the footman stood 
laughing at her distress. Finally she got up gently 
and was retiring into the house, when the silver- 
laced footman stopped her, saying insolently, “ Sit 
still, child.” 

“ I must go to my mother, sir,” said the little girl. 
“ You have spoiled all my lace. I can’t stay.” 

“Can’t you.^^ ” sneered the brutal footman, snatch- 
ing her weaving pillow. “ I’ll teach you to complain 
of me ; ” and he broke off all the bobbins, one after 
another, put them in his pocket, kicked her weaving 
pillow down the dirty lane, then jumped up behind 
his mistress’s coach and was quickly out of sight. 


173 


“ Poor girl ! ” exclaimed Rosamond. “ Poor little 
girl ! ” 

At this instant Rosamond’s mother said, “ Come 
now, my dear, if you want this filigree paper.” 

“Yes, mamma,” responded Rosamond, and all her 
feelings of pity were immediately suppressed, and 
she went to spend her half guinea on her filigree 
basket. 

In the meantime, Laura opened the window, 
beckoned to the poor girl and said, pointing to the 
cushion, “ Is it quite spoiled ? ” 

“ Quite, quite spoiled,” was the reply. “ And I 
can’t buy another, and I can’t do anything else for 
my bread.” 

A few tears fell as she said this. 

“ How much would another cost ? ” asked Laura. 

“ Oh, a great, great deal ! ” 

“ More than that ? ” said Laura, holding up her 
half guinea. 

“ Oh no ! ” 

“ Then take this money and buy another with it,” 
said Laura, dropping the half guinea into the girl’s 
hand, and she shut the window before the child 
could find words to thank her, but not before she 
saw a look of joy and gratitude which gave her 


more pleasure than all the praise that could have 
been bestowed on her generosity. 

Late on the morning of her cousin’s birthday, 
Rosamond finished her workbasket. The carriage 

was at the door. 
Laura came run- 
ning to call her, 
and her father’s 
voice was heard 
also. So she was 
obliged to go 
down with her 
basket but half 
wrapped up in 
silver paper, a 
circumstance at 
which she was a 
good deal discon- 
certed ; for the 
pleasure of sur- 
prising Bell would be utterly lost if one bit of the 
filigree should peep out before the proper time. 
As the carriage went on, Rosamond pulled the 
paper to one side and to the other, and by each of 
the four corners. 



Laura and the little lacemaker 


175 


“ It will not do, my dear,” said her father, who 
had been watching her operations. “I am afraid 
you can never make a sheet of paper cover a box 
that is twice as large as itself.” 

“ It is not a box, father,” said Rosamond, a little 
peevishly. “ It is a basket.” 

“ Let us look at this basket,” said he, taking it 
out of her unwilling hands ; for she knew of what 
frail materials it was made, and she dreaded its com- 
ing to pieces under her father’s examination. 

“ Oh, sir ! Father ! Sir ! you will spoil it, indeed ! ” 
she exclaimed. 

“ And is this the thing you have been working at 
so long ? ” continued he, turning the basket round 
with his finger and thumb. “ I have seen you all 
this week dabbling with paste and rags. I could 
not imagine what you were about. Is this the 
thing ? ” 

“Yes, sir; it is a present for my Cousin Bell,” 
replied Rosamond. 

From her infancy Bell had been humored, and 
at eight years old she was a spoiled child, idle, fret- 
ful, and selfish. On her birthday she expected to be 
perfectly happy. Everybody in the house tried to 
please her, and they succeeded so well that between 


176 


breakfast and dinner she had only six fits of crying. 
The cause of the majority of these fits no one could 
discover; but the most lamentable was occasioned by 
a disappointment about a muslin frock. At dressing- 
time her maid had brought it to her, exclaiming: 
“ See here, miss, what your mamma has got you on 
your birthday. Here’s a frock fit for a queen — if 
it only had lace round the cuffs.” 

“And why has not it lace around the cuffs? 
Mamma said it should,” complained Bell. 

“ Yes, but mistress was disappointed. The lace 
has not come home.” 

“ Not come home ! And this is my birthday,” said 
Bell, beginning to cry. “ I won’t wear it without 
the lace. I can’t wear it without the lace, and I 
won’t.” 

The lace, however, could not be had, and Bell 
at length submitted to let the frock be put on. 

“ Come, Miss Bell, dry your eyes,” begged the 
maid, “and I’ll tell you something that will please 
you ; but you must not let any one know that I told 
you.” 

“ I’ll never tell,” was Bell’s reply. 

“Well, then,” said the maid, “your Cousin Rosa- 
mond has brought you the most beautiful thing 


177 



you ever saw in your life; but you are not to know 
anything about it till after dinner, because she 
wants to surprise you, and mistress has put it in 
her closet.” 

“ I can’t wait 
till after dinner!” 
declared Bell, 
impatiently. “ I 
must see it this 
minute.” 

The maid re- 
fused her several 
times, but Bell 
burst into an- 
other fit of cry- 
ing, and the 
maid, fearing 
that her mistress 
would be angry 
with her if Bell’s 
eyes were red at 
dinner time, consented to show her the basket. 

“ How pretty ! Let me have it in my own hands,” 
said Bell, as the maid held the basket up out of her 
reach. 


The maid showing Bell the basket 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 12 


178 


“ Oh, no, you must not touch it,” the maid re- 
sponded; “for if you should spoil it, what would 
become of me ? ” 

“ I shan’t spoil it,” declared Bell, “ and I will have 
it in my own hands. If you don’t hold it down for 
me at once. I’ll tell that you showed it to me.” 

“ Then you won’t snatch it ? ” 

“No, no, I won’t, indeed,” Bell promised; but 
nevertheless she snatched the basket the moment 
it was within her reach. 

A struggle ensued, in which the handle and lid 
were torn off and one of the medallions crushed 
inward. Bell was calmed at this sight, and the 
next question was how to conceal the mischief she 
had done. After many attempts the handle and 
lid were replaced, the basket was put exactly in the 
same spot where it had stood before, and the maid 
charged the child to “look as if nothing was the 
matter.” 

Then they left the room, and in the adjoining 
passage they found a poor girl waiting, with a small 
parcel in her hand. “ What do you want ? ” ques- 
tioned the maid. 

“ I have brought home the lace that was bespoke 
for the young lady,” the girl replied. 


79 


“ Oh, you have, have you, at last ? ” said Bell. 
“ And pray why didn’t you bring it sooner } ” 

The girl was going to answer, but the maid in- 
terrupted her, saying : “ Come, come, none of your 
excuses. You are a little idle, good-for-nothing, to 
disappoint Miss Bell on her birthday. However, as 
you have brought it, let us look at it.” 

The little girl handed the lace to the maid, who 
promptly ordered her to go about her business and 
not to expect to be paid then ; for her mistress 
could not see anybody, because she was in a room 
full of company. 

“ May I call again, madam, this afternoon } ” said 
the child, timidly. 

“ Lord bless my stars ! ” exclaimed the maid. 
“ What makes people so poor, I wonder ! I wish 
mistress would buy her lace at a shop and not of 
such folks. Call again! Yes, to be sure. I believe 
you’d call twenty times for twopence.” 

Though the permission to call again was granted 
so ungraciously, it was received with gratitude. 
The little girl departed with a cheerful countenance, 
and Bell teased her maid till she got her to sew the 
long-wished-for lace on her cuffs. 

Unfortunate Bell I Dinner time had nearly passed. 


i8o 


and people were so busy that not an eye observed 
her favorite piece of finery. At length she was no 
longer able to conceal her impatience, and turning 
to Laura, who sat next to her, she said: “ You have 
no lace on your cuffs. Look, how beautiful mine 
is! Don’t you wish your mamma could afford to 
give you some like it? But you can’t get any if 
she would, for this was made on purpose for me, 
and nobody can get a bit more anywhere, if they 
would give the world for it.” 

“ Cannot the person who made it make any more 
like it ? ” inquired Laura. 

“ No, no, no ! ” cried Bell. “ Nobody can get any 
like it, I say. There is only one person can make 
it, and that person will never make a bit for any one 
but me, I am certain. Mamma won’t let her.” 

“Very well,” said Laura, coolly; “I assure you 
that I don’t want any of it.” 

“Yes, but you do, though,” retorted Bell, angrily. 
“You say you don’t to plague me, I know.” 

Laura received this declaration in silence. Rosa- 
mond smiled, and at her smile the ill-suppressed 
rage of the spoiled child broke forth into the 
seventh and loudest fit of crying which had been 
heard on her birthday. 


i8i 

“ What’s the matter, my pet ? ” asked her mother. 
“ Come to me and tell me what’s the matter.” 

Bell ran roaring to her mother, but no otherwise 
explained the cause of her sorrow than by tearing 
the fine lace, with frantic gestures, from her cuffs, 
and throwing the fragments into her mother’s lap. 
“ Oh, the lace, child ! Are you crazy ? ” said her 
mother, catching hold of both her hands. “Your 
beautiful lace, my dear love, — do you know how 
much it cost ? ” 

“ I don’t care how much it cost ! It is not beau- 
tiful, and ril have none of it,” replied Bell, sobbing. 

“ But it is beautiful,” asserted her mother. “ I 
chose the pattern myself. Who has put it into your 
head, child, to dislike it ? ” 

“ They have, mamma,” said Bell, pointing to 
Laura and Rosamond. 

“ Oh, fie ! don’t point,” said her mother, put- 
ing down Bell’s stubborn finger. “I am sure you 
misunderstood.” 

Everybody had now gathered round Bell to dry 
her tears, and to comfort her for the mischief she 
had done to her cuffs. They succeeded so well 
that in about a quarter of an hour the young lady’s 
reddened eyes came to their natural color ; and, the 


i 82 


business being thus happily hushed up, the mother, 
as a reward to her daughter for her good humor, 
begged that Rosamond would now produce her 
“charming present.” 

Rosamond, followed by all the company, includ- 
ing, to her great joy, her godmother, proceeded to 
the dressing room. “Now I am sure,” thought she, 
“ Bell will be surprised, and my godmother will see 
she was right about my generosity.” 

The door of the closet was opened with due 
ceremony, and the filigree basket appeared in all 
its glory. “Well, this is a charming present, 
indeed ! ” said the godmother. “ My Rosamond 
knows how to make presents.” 

As she spoke, she took hold of the basket to 
lift it down to the admiring audience. Scarcely 
had she touched it when, lo ! the basket fell to the 
floor, and only the handle remained in her hand. 
All eyes were fixed on the wreck. Exclamations 
of sorrow were heard in various tones. 

“ Who can have done this ? ” was all that Rosa- 
mond could say. 

Bell stood in sullen silence, which she obsti- 
nately preserved in the midst of the inquiries 
that were made about the disaster. At length the 


i83 

servants were summoned, and among them Nancy, 
who was Bell’s maid and governess. She affected 
much surprise when she saw what had befallen the 
basket, and declared that she knew nothing of 
the matter, but that she had seen her mistress 
in the morning put the basket in the closet; and 
that for her part she had never touched it, or 
thought of touching it. “ Nor Miss Bell, either, 
ma’am,” she added. “ I knew Miss Rosamond 
wanted to surprise her with the secret. So I never 
mentioned a sentence of it, — did I, Miss Bell ? ” 

“ No,” answered Bell, boldly. 

She had hold of Rosamond’s hand, and she was 
so nervous and excited that at the instant she 
uttered this falsehood she squeezed her companion’s 
hand terribly. “ Why do you squeeze my hand so ? ” 
asked Rosamond, in a low voice. “ What are you 
afraid of.?” 

“Afraid of?” cried Bell, turning angrily; “I’m 
not afraid of anything. iVe nothing to be afraid 
about.” 

“I did not say you had,” whispered Rosamond; 
“and yet, if you did by accident spoil the basket, 
you might say so, for I should not have any hard 
feelings toward you.” 


84 


“ I say I did not ! ” declared Bell, furiously. 
“Mamma! Mamma! Nancy! My Cousin Rosa- 
mond won’t believe me ! That’s very rude, and I 
won’t bear it ! I won’t ! ” 

“ Don’t be angry, love, don’t,” pleaded the maid. 

“ Nobody suspects you, darling,” said her mother. 
“ Don’t cry. But you know,” continued she, turn- 
ing to the maid, “some one must have done this, 
and I am determined to find out who it was. Miss 
Rosamond’s charming present shall not be spoiled 
in this way in my house without my taking proper 
notice of it. I assure you, I am very angry about 
it, Rosamond.” 

“ Ma’am,” cried the maid, suddenly, “ I’ll venture 
to say I know who did it.” 

“ Who ? ” said every one, eagerly. 

“ Who ? ” asked Bell, trembling. 

“Why, miss, don’t you recollect that little girl 
with the lace that we saw peeping about in the 
passage ? I’m sure she must have done it ; for 
she was here by herself half an hour or more, 
and not another creature has been in mistress’s 
dressing room, to my certain knowledge, since morn- 
ing. People of that sort have so much curiosity ! 
I’m sure she must have been meddling with it.” 


i85 


“ Oh, yes, that’s the thing,” said the mistress, 
decidedly. “Well, Miss Rosamond, for your com- 
fort she shall never come into my house again.” 

“ Oh, that would not comfort me at all,” said 
Rosamond. “ Besides, we are not sure that she 
did it ; and if — ” 

Just then a knock was heard at the door. The 
little girl had come to he paid for her lace. “ Call 
her in,” directed the lady of the house. “Let us 
see her.” 

The maid hesitated; but her mistress repeated 
her commands, and she was forced to obey. The 
child was somewhat abashed when she entered and 
saw a room full of company. Rosamond and Laura 
looked at her and at one another with surprise. 

“ Is it not the same little girl whom we saw weav- 
ing lace ? ” whispered Rosamond to her sister. 

“Yes, it is,” replied Laura. “But hush! She 
does not know us. Don’t speak. Let us hear what 
she will say.” 

Then Laura got behind the rest of the company, 
so that the little girl could not see her. 

“ Did you ever see that basket before ? ” ques- 
tioned Bell’s mother. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” said the girl. 


“ And what else do you know about it ? ” cried the 
maid. “ You had better confess at once, and per- 
haps mistress will say no more about it.” 

“ Yes, do confess,” added Bell, earnestly. 

“ Confess what ? ” said the little girl. “ I never 


touched the 
basket.” 



“ You never 
touched it ! ” re- 
peated Bell’s 
mother ; “ but you 
say that you did 
see it before. Pray, 
how came you to 


see it ? ” 


“ I was waiting 
in the passage. 


The broken basket 


ma’am,” said the little girl, “ and the door into this 
room was partly open, and I was looking at the 
maid, you know. So I could not help seeing the 
basket.” 

“ Why, how could you see through the door of 
my closet ? ” rejoined the lady. 

The maid, frightened, pulled the little girl by the 
sleeve. 


i87 

“Answer me,” said the lady. “Where did you 
see this basket ? ” 

“ I saw it, madam, in her hands,” replied the child, 
looking at the maid, “and” — hesitating — “miss 
reached for it, and — miss, you know what I saw.” 

“ I do not know ! I do not know ! ” screamed 
Bell. “ And if I did, you had no business to be spy- 
ing; and mamma won’t believe you, I am sure.” 

Everybody else, however, believed ; and their eyes 
were fixed on Bell in a manner which made her feel 
rather humiliated. 

“ Why do you look at me so ? Am I to be put 
to shame on my birthday ? ” cried she, with a bellow 
of passion. “ And all for this nasty thing ! ” she 
added, pushing away the ruined basket and look- 
ing angrily at Rosamond. 

“ Bell ! Bell ! Oh, fie ! fie ! I am ashamed of you. 
That’s quite rude to your cousin,” said her mother, 
who was more shocked at her daughter’s want of 
politeness than at her falsehood. “ Take her away, 
Nancy, till she has done crying,” said she to the 
maid, who accordingly carried off her pupil. 

“ Well, my dear Rosamond,” said her godmother, 
“ I admire your generous spirit. You know I proph- 
esied that your half guinea would be gone the 


88 


soonest. Did I not, Laura ? Where is Laura ? I 
don’t see her.” 

Laura came forward. “You are too prudent to 
throw away your money like your sister,” continued 
the lady. “ Your half guinea is snug in your pocket, 
is it not ? ” 

“ No, madam,” answered she, in a low voice. 

But, low as her voice was, the little lace girl heard 
it, and, looking at Laura, she recognized her bene- 
factress. “ Oh, that’s the young lady ! ” she ex- 
claimed, in a tone of joyful gratitude, — “ The good 
young lady who gave me the half guinea, and would 
not stay to be thanked ; but I will thank her now.” 

“ The half guinea, Laura ! ” said the godmother. 
“ What is all this ? ” 

“ I’ll tell you, madam, if you please,” said the little 
girl; and she related how Laura had helped her in 
the time of her distress. 

It was not in expectation of being praised that 
Laura had been generous, and therefore everybody 
was really touched with the history of the weaving 
pillow. 

“ Ah, madam,” said Rosamond to her godmother, 
“ now you see Laura is not a little miser. I’m sure 
the use she made of her money was better than 


wasting half a guinea on a filigree basket,” and the 
eagerness with which Rosamond spoke showed that 
she had forgotten all her own misfortunes in sym- 
pathy with her sister. 

“ What Laura did was being really generous, 
father, was it not ? ” said she, as they were driving 
home. 

“Yes, Rosamond,” replied her father, kissing her, 
“ that was being really generous ; and it is not only 
by giving away money that we can show generosity. 
It is by giving up to others anything that we like 
ourselves.” 


LAZY LAWRENCE 

In the pleasant valley of Ashton lived a widow 
named Prescott. Her cottage was always very 
neat, and there was not a weed to be seen in her 
garden. The garden was her chief dependence for 
support. It consisted of strawberry beds and one 
small border of pinks and roses. The flowers she 
tied up in nosegays and sent to the large towns of 
Clifton and Bristol, which were not far distant, to 
be sold. As to the strawberries, she did not send 
them to market, because it was the custom for 


people to come from Clifton, in the summer time, 
to eat strawberries and cream at the gardens in 
Ashton. 

The widow Prescott was obliging, active, and 
good-humored, and she lived happily until, one 
autumn, she fell sick. During her illness, every- 
thing went wrong. Her garden was neglected, her 
cow died, and all the money she had saved was 
spent in paying for medicines. The winter passed 
away while she was so weak that she could earn but 
little by her work ; and when the summer came, her 
rent was called for, and the money was not ready in 
her purse as usual. She begged a few months’ 
delay, and this was granted ; but at the end of 
that time she still had no money, and there was 
nothing to do but to sell her horse Lightfoot. 
Though Lightfoot had seen his best days, he was a 
great favorite. In his youth he had always carried 
the dame to market behind her husband, and now 
her little son Jem rode him. It was Jem’s business 
to feed Lightfoot and to take care of him, — a 
charge which he never neglected. 

“Jem’s heart will be well-nigh broken to part 
with Lightfoot,” thought Dame Prescott to herself 
as she sat one evening by the fire. 


191 


Her son stood opposite her, eating a dry crust of 
bread very heartily for supper. “ Are you hungry? ” 
said his mother. 

“That I am,” replied Jem. 

“ Ay ! no wonder ; you’ve been hard at work, 
eh?” 

“Yes, and I wish it was not so dark, mother, that 
you might just step out and see the ground I’ve 
dug. I know you’d say it was no bad day’s work ; 
and oh, mother! I’ve good news — Farmer Truck 
will give us some giant strawberry plants. I’m to 
go for them to-morrow morning, and I will be back 
by breakfast time.” 

“ God bless the boy I How he talks I Four miles 
there and four miles back by breakfast time 1 ” 

“ Ay, on Lightfoot, you know, mother. But why 
do you sigh ? ” 

“ Finish your supper, child,” was his mother’s 
only response. 

“I’ve done!” cried Jem, swallowing the last 
mouthful hastily. “And now I must mend Light- 
foot’s bridle before I go to bed.” 

He set to work by the light of the fire, and the 
dame began to question him about the horse. “Jem, 
dear, does he go lame at all now?” she asked. 


192 


“Oh, no! — never was better. He’s grown quite 
young, and he’s so fat he can hardly wag.” 

“That’s good; and we must be careful to keep 
him fat, Jem.” 

“ For what, mother ? ” 

“For a fortnight from Monday at the fair,” was 
her reply. “ He’s to be sold.” 

“Lightfoot!” exclaimed Jem, and let the bridle 
fall from his hand. “ Will you sell Lightfoot ? ” 

“ I must, Jem.” 

“ Why must you } ” 

“ That I may pay my debts. The rent was 
called for long, long ago, and I promised to pay 
it a fortnight from Monday. I am two guineas 
short; and where am I to get two guineas except 
by selling Lightfoot } ” 

Jem was silent for a few minutes. “Two 
guineas,” said he at length; “that’s a great deal. 
If I worked and worked and worked ever so hard 
I could not earn two guineas in a fortnight, — 
could I, mother ? ” 

“ Lord help thee, no ; not if thee worked thyself 
to death.” 

“But I can earn something,” cried Jem, “and 
I will.” 


93 


His mother drew him toward her and kissed 
him. “You were always a good, industrious lad,” 
said she ; “ but you can’t save Lightfoot now.” 

Jem turned away, struggling to hide his tears, 
and went to bed without saying a word more. 
He knew that crying would do no good. So he 
presently wiped his eyes, and lay awake consider- 
ing what he could possibly do to avoid losing the 
horse. “ If I get ever so little,” he said, “ it will 
be something, and who knows but the landlord 
might wait until we could make it all up.^^ A 
penny a day would come to two guineas in time.” 

But how to get the first penny was the question. 
Then Jem recollected that one day, when he had 
been sent to Clifton to sell some flowers, he had 
seen an old woman with a board beside her, cov- 
ered with various sparkling stones. Now and 
then people who were passing would stop to look 
at the stones, and he remembered that they occa- 
sionally bought some of them. One paid two- 
pence, another threepence, and another sixpence 
for those they selected; and Jem heard the old 
woman say she got them amongst the neighbor- 
ing rocks. He thought, if he tried, he might 
find some, too, and sell them as she did. 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 1 3 


194 


Early in the morning he saddled and bridled 
Lightfoot, and went to Farmer Truck’s for the 
strawberry plants. Half the day was spent in 
putting them in the ground; but as soon as that 
task was finished, he set off to Clifton in search 

of the old woman, 
to inquire where 
she found her 
sparkling stones. 
To his great joy 
he spied her sit- 
ting at the corner 
of the street with 
her board before 
her. But this old 
woman was deaf 
and cross ; and 

Jem and the old woman 

when at Iq^st Jem 
made her hear his questions, he could get no answer 
from her except that she found the crystals where 
he would never find any more. 

“ But can’t I look where you looked ? ” said he. 

“ Look away ; nobody hinders you,” replied the 
old woman; and these were the only words she 
would say. 



195 


However, Jem was not a boy to be easily dis- 
couraged. He went to the rocks, and walked 
slowly along, with his eyes on the stones. Pres- 
ently he came to a place where a number of men 
were at work loosening some large rocks, and 
one of the workmen was stooping down looking 
for something. Jem ran up and asked if he could 
help him. “Yes,” said the man, “you can. I’ve 
just dropped in this heap of rubbish a fine piece 
of crystal that I got to-day.” 

“ What kind of a looking thing was it ? ” in- 
quired Jem. 

“ White, and like glass,” the man answered. 

He presently returned to his work, but Jem 
examined the heap of rubbish for a long time. 

“ Come,” said the man, “ it’s gone forever. Don’t 
trouble yourself any more, my boy.” 

“ It’s no trouble, and we’ll not give up so soon,” 
Jem replied. 

He looked a little longer and found the piece 
of crystal. “Thanks,” said the man. “You are a 
fine little fellow.” 

Jem, encouraged by the tone of voice in which 
the man spoke, ventured to ask him where he could 
find some pretty stones to sell. 


196 


“ One good turn deserves another,” said the man. 
“ We shall soon leave off work to go to dinner. 
Wait for me, and I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Jem waited, and, as he was very attentively observ- 
ing how the men went on with their work, he heard 
somebody near him give a great yawn. Turning 
round, he saw stretched on the grass an Ashton 
boy about his own age, who, in the home village, 
went by the name of Lazy Lawrence. The name 
was most justly deserved, for he was a boy who 
never did anything from morning to night. His 
father was an alehouse keeper, and, being generally 
drunk, could take no care of his son. Yet some 
of the neighbors said that Lawrence was a good- 
natured fellow enough, and would never do any one 
harm but himself. 

“ Are you asleep, Lawrence ” cried Jem, when he 
saw him lying on the grass. 

“ Not quite,” was the reply. 

“ What are you doing there ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ What makes you lie there ? ” 

“ I don’t know, — because I can’t find anybody to 
play with me. Will you come and play.? ” 

“No, I can’t. I’m busy.” 


197 


“ Busy ! ” exclaimed Lawrence, stretching himself, 
“ You are always busy. I would not be you for the 
world, to have so much to do.” 

They then parted, for the workman just at that 
moment called Jem to follow him. He took him to 
his house, and showed him a package of fossils 
which he said he had gathered on purpose to sell, 
but had never yet taken time to sort them. Now, 
however, he set about the task ; and, having picked 
out those which he judged to be the best, he put 
them in a small basket, and let Jem have them to 
sell, on condition that he should give him half of 
the money he got. Jem was ready to agree to what 
the man proposed, and that afternoon he took his 
stand with his little basket, on the bank of the river, 
at a place where people landed from a ferry-boat. 
There he waited nearly all the afternoon, offering 
his fossils with great assiduity to every passenger, 
but not one person bought. 

“ Hello ! ” cried some sailors who had just rowed 
a boat to land. “ Bear a hand here, will you, my 
little fellow, and carry these parcels up the bank ? ” 

Jem ran down immediately for the parcels, and 
did what he was asked to do, with so much good- 
will that the master of the boat stopped to ask him 


198 

what he had in his little basket. When he saw 
that the basket contained fossils, he told Jem to 
follow him, for he was going to carry some shells 
he had brought from abroad to a lady of the 
neighborhood who was making a grotto. “ She 
will very likely buy your stones into the bargain,” 
said he. 

The lady lived but a little way off, so that they 
were soon at her house. She was alone in her 
parlor, and was sorting a bundle of feathers of 
different colors. They lay on a sheet of pasteboard 
on a window-seat, and it happened, as the sailor 
was bustling around the table to show his shells, 
he knocked down the sheet of pasteboard and scat- 
tered all the feathers. The lady looked annoyed 
and Jem took the opportunity, while she was busy 
examining the sailor’s shells, to gather together all 
the feathers, and sort them according to their 
different colors, as he had seen them sorted when 
he first came into the room. 

“ Where is the little boy you brought with you } ” 
the lady inquired, presently. 

“ Here I am, ma’am,” said Jem, creeping from 
under the table with some few remaining feathers 
which he had picked from the carpet. “ I thought,” 


199 


added he, “ I had better be doing something than 
standing idle.” 

She smiled, and, pleased with his activity, asked 
him who he was, where he lived, what employment 
he had, and how much a day he earned by selling 
fossils. 

“ This is the first day I ever tried to sell them,” 
said Jem. “ I haven’t sold any yet, and if you don’t 
buy them. I’m afraid nobody will.” 

“ Come, then,” said the lady, laughing; “if that is 
the case, I think I had better buy them all.” 

So, emptying the fossils out of his basket, she put 
half a crown into it. 

JemTs eyes sparkled with joy. “ Oh, thank you, 
ma’am,” said he. “ I will be sure to bring you as 
many more to-morrow.” 

“Yes, but I don’t promise to give you a half 
crown to-morrow,” said she. 

“ But perhaps you will give it, though you don’t 
promise.” 

“ No,” said the lady, “do not deceive yourself. I 
assure you that I will not.” 

“ What I want is to earn something every day,” 
explained Jem. “If you knew all, you’d under- 
stand.” 


200 


“ How do you mean — if I knew all ? ” 

“ Why, I mean if you knew about Lightfoot.” 

“Who’s Lightfoot?” 

“ Mammy’s horse,” replied Jem, looking out of the 
window. “ I must make haste home to feed him 
before it gets dark. He’ll wonder what has hap- 
pened to me.” 

“ Let him wonder a little longer,” said the lady, 
“ and tell me the rest of your story.” 

“ I’ve no story, ma’am, to tell, except that mammy 
says Lightfoot must go to the fair a fortnight from 
Monday to be sold, if she can’t get two guineas for 
her rent. I would be very sorry to part with him, 
for I love him and he loves me. So I’ll work all I 
can to keep him, though, as mammy says, I have 
no chance of earning two guineas in such a short 
time.” 

“ But are you willing earnestly to work ? ” the lady 
asked. 

“ I would work every day and all day long,” Jem 
answered. 

“ Then I will give you work,” said she. “ Come 
here to-morrow morning, and my gardener will set 
you to weed the shrubberies, and I will pay you six- 
pence a day.” 


201 


, Jem bowed, thanked her, and went away. It 
was late in the evening, and he was impatient to get 
home to feed Lightfoot ; yet he recollected that he 
had promised the man who had trusted him to sell the 
fossils that he would bring him half of what he got 
for them. So he thought that he had better go to 
him at once ; and away he went, running along by 
the waterside about a quarter of a mile till he came 
to the man’s house. The man was just returned 
from work, and was surprised when Jem showed 
him the half crown. “ That’s what I got for the 
stones,” said Jem, “and you are to have half, you 
know.” 

“ No,” said the man, when he had heard Jem’s 
story, “ I shall not take half of that. I expected 
you to get but a shilling at the most, and the 
half of a shilling is sixpence. Wife, give the lad 
two shillings in exchange for this half crown.” 

His wife opened an old glove she used for a 
purse and took out two shillings, and then the man 
looked into the glove and picked out a little silver 
penny. “ He shall have that into the bargain for 
his honesty,” said he. “ It’s a lucky penny I’ve 
kept ever since I can remember.” 

“ And you mustn’t give that away or spend it,” 


202 


said the woman. “Don’t you ever part with it 
Do you hear ? ” 

Jem now ran home, fed Lightfoot, stroked him, 
and went to bed, and in the morning he jumped 
up at five o’clock and started for work, singing as 
gay as a lark. Four days he worked “ every day 

and all day long,” 
and each evening 
the lady, when she 
came out to walk 
in her garden, looked 
at what he had done. 
At last she said to 
her gardener, “ This 

Jem weeding in the garden Httlc boy WOrks very 

hard.” 

“ Never had so good a boy about the grounds,” 
responded the gardener. “ He’s always busy, let 
me come by when I will, and he does nearly twice 
as much as another would do.” 

“ Well,” said the lady, “ show me how much is 
a fair day’s work for a boy of his age.” 

“ Why, about this much, ma’am,” answered the 
gardener, marking off a piece of the border with 
his spade. 



203 


“ Then, little boy,” the lady said, “ so much shall 
be your task every day ; and, when you’ve finished, 
the rest of the day you may do what you please.” 

Jem was extremely glad of this, and the next 
day he had his task done by four o’clock. He 
was as fond of play as any boy could be ; and as 
soon as he had been home and put by the sixpence 
he earned that day, he ran to the village play- 
ground. There he found a party of boys, and 
near by was Lazy Lawrence, lounging on a gate. 
The rest were playing cricket. Jem joined them, 
and was the merriest and most active among them, 
till at last, quite out of breath with running, he sat 
down close to the gate on which Lazy Lawrence 
was swinging. “ And why don’t you play, Law- 
rence ? ” said he. 

“ I’m tired,” said Lawrence. 

“ Tired of what ? ” 

“ I don’t know what tires me. Grandmother 
says I’m sick and I must take some medicine.” 

“ Oh, pooh ! take a good race and you’ll find 
yourself as well as ever. Come, run ! 

“Ah, no, I can’t run,” said Lawrence. “You 
know I can play all day long if I like, so I don’t 
care for play as you do, who have so little time 


204 


for it, and I’m as tired as if I’d been working all 
day long as hard as a horse.” 

“Ten times more,” said Jem; “for I have been 
working all day long as hard as a horse, and yet 
you see I’m not a bit tired, only a little out of 
breath just now.” 

“ That’s very odd,” Lawrence responded, and 
yawned. Then he took out a handful of half- 
pence and said, “See what I got from father to- 
day, because I asked him just at the right time, 
when he had drunk a glass or two. See ! a penny, 
twopence, threepence — there’s eightpence. Would 
not you be happy if you had eightpence ? I don’t 
suppose you ever had more than twopence or three- 
pence at a time in all your life.” 

Jem smiled. “ Oh, as to that,” said he, “you are 
mistaken, for I have at this very moment more 
than twopence, threepence, or eightpence either. I 
have — let me see — stones, two shillings ; then five 
days’ work, that’s five sixpences. In all it makes 
four shillings and sixpence; and my silver penny is 
four and sevenpence.” 

“ What ! ” said Lawrence. “ Four and seven- 
pence ! I don’t believe you. Show it to me.” 

“Follow me, then,” cried Jem, and he led the 


205 


way to the stable, where he showed Lawrence his 
treasure. 

“ And how did you come by it?” Lawrence asked. 

“ I earned it.” 

“Lord bless me, earned it! Well, I’ve a great 
mind to work, but then it’s such hot weather! 
Besides, grandmother says I’m not strong enough 
yet for hard work ; and you know I can coax daddy 
out of money when I want it. So I do not need to 
work. But four and sevenpence, — what will you 
do with it all ? ” 

“ That’s a secret,” said Jem. 

“ I know what I’d do with it if it was mine. First 
I’d buy pocketfuls of gingerbread. Then I’d buy 
ever so many apples and nuts. Yes, I’d buy nuts 
enough to last me from this time till Christmas. 
You’ll give me some of your good things, won’t 
you ? ” asked Lawrence. 

“ I shall not have any of those good things,” 
replied Jem. 

“ Then what will you do with your money ? ” 

“ Oh, I know very well what to do with it ; but, 
as I said before, that’s a secret. Come, let us go 
back and play,” urged Jem, and they both returned 
to the playground. 


206 


The next morning, as usual, Jem got up at five 
o’clock and spent the day at his work, while Lazy 
Lawrence sauntered about without knowing what 
to do with himself. In the course of two days he 
laid out sixpence of his money in apples and ginger- 
bread. As long as these lasted, he found himself 
well received by his companions ; but the third day 
he spent the other twopence, and then he ran home 
to coax his father for more money. When he 
approached the house he heard his father talking 
very loud, and at first he thought he was drunk; 
but on opening the kitchen door he found he was 
not drunk, but angry. 

“You lazy dog!” cried he, turning suddenly on 
Lawrence. “ See what you’ve done for me. Look, 
look, I say ! ” and he gave the boy such a violent 
box on the ear it made the light flash from his eyes. 

Lawrence looked, and with fear, amazement, and 
remorse beheld at least a dozen bottles of cider 
that had burst, and the cider had streamed over the 
floor. 

“Did not I order you, three days ago, to carry 
these bottles to the cellar ? ” questioned his father. 
“ Answer me, you lazy rascal.” 

“ Yes,” said Lawrence, scratching his head. 


207 


“ And why was it not done, I ask you ? ” shouted 
his father, with renewed anger, as another bottle 
burst at the moment. “ What do you stand there 
for? Why don’t you move ? No, no, I believe you 
can’t move ; but I’ll make you ! ” and he caught 
hold of him and shook him till Lawrence was so 
giddy he could hardly stand. “ What had you to 
think of ? What had you to do all day long that 
you could not carry my cider to the cellar when I 
bade you ? But go ! You’ll never be good for any- 
thing. Get out of my sight ! ” 

So saying, he pushed him out of the house door, 
and Lawrence sneaked off. The next day he began 
wishing for money again, and he went to his father, 
in hope that he would be in better humor. But the 
cider was still fresh in his recollection, and the mo- 
ment Lawrence whispered the word “half-penny” 
in his ear, he replied with a loud oath, “ I will not 
give you a single farthing for a month to come. If 
you want money, work for it. I’ve had enough of 
your laziness.” 

Lawrence burst into tears, and, going outside, sat 
down and cried for an hour. When he had cried 
till he could cry no more, he exerted himself so far 
as to empty his pockets to see whether there might 


208 


not happen to be any money left. To his great joy, 
one half-penny was found. With this he proceeded 
to a fruit woman’s stall. She was busy weighing 
out some plums. So he was obliged to wait ; and 
while he was waiting, he heard some people near by 
talking and laughing very loud. 

The fruit woman’s stall was at the gate of an inn 
yard ; and, peeping through the gate into the yard, 
Lawrence saw a postilion and a stableboy about 
his own size playing at pitch farthing. He stood 
watching them for a few minutes. “ I began with 
but one half-penny, and now I’ve got twopence ! ” 
said the stableboy, jingling the coins in his waist- 
coat pocket. 

“ If I begin with one half-penny,” said Lawrence 
to himself, “ I may end, like him, with having two- 
pence, and it is easier to play at pitch farthing than 
to work.” 

So he stepped forward, presenting his half-penny 
and offering to toss up with the stableboy, who, 
after looking him full in the face, accepted the pro- 
posal and threw a half-penny into the air. “ Head 
or tail ? ” cried he. 

“ Head,” replied Lawrence, and it came up head. 
He seized the coin, surprised at his own success. 


209 


and would have gone instantly to lay it out in nuts, 
but the stableboy stopped him and tempted him to 
throw again. This time Lawrence lost. He threw 
again and won ; and the next throw he won also. 



Lawrence and the stableboys 


Then, finding himself master of three half-pence, he 
said he would play no more. 

The stableboy grumbled that he would have his 
revenge another time, and Lawrence went and 
bought some nuts. “ It is a good thing to play at 
pitch farthing,” said he. “ The next time I want 
money. I’ll not ask my father for it, nor go to work 
either.” 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 1 4 


210 


Satisfied with this resolution, he sat down to 
crack his nuts at his leisure on the horse block in 
the inn yard, and, whilst he ate, he overheard the 
conversation of the stableboys and postilions. At 
first their oaths and loud wrangling frightened and 
shocked him. But by degrees he became accus- 
tomed to their swearing and quarreling, and took 
a delight and interest in their disputes and battles. 
He grew so fond of this amusement that every day 
he returned to the stable yard, and the horse block 
was his constant seat. Here, hour after hour, with 
his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands, 
he sat, the spectator of wickedness. Gaming, cheat- 
ing, and lying soon became familiar to him, and 
he formed a close intimacy with the stableboy with 
whom he had first begun to game. 

But it is now time to inquire what Jern had been 
doing all this while. One day, after Jem had fin- 
ished his task, the gardener asked him to stay a 
little and help him carry some geranium pots into 
the hall. Jem, always obliging, readily stayed, and 
was carrying in a heavy flowerpot when his mis- 
tress crossed the hall. 

“You are tracking in a great deal of dirt!” said 
she. “ Why don’t you wipe your shoes on the mat ? ” 


21 1 


Jem turned round to look for the mat. “ There 
is no mat,” said the gardener, “ and I don’t know 
when, if ever, the man will bring home those mats 
you bespoke, ma’am.” 

“ I am very sorry to hear that,” said the lady. 
“ I wish we could find somebody else who would do 
them, if he can’t. I would not care what sort of 
mats they were, if only they were such as one could 
wipe one’s feet on.” 

Jem, who was sweeping away the litter when he 
heard those last words, said to himself, “ Perhaps I 
could make a mat ; ” and all the way home, as he 
trudged along whistling, he was considering 
schemes for mat making. He thought that, if he 
could find some way of plaiting heath firmly to- 
gether, it would make a soft green mat which would 
do very well. About a mile from his mother’s 
house was a common, where Jem remembered to 
have seen a great quantity of heath; and as it 
was now only six o’clock in the evening, he knew 
he would have time to feed Lightfoot, go to the 
common, return, and make a trial of his skill before 
he went to bed. 

Lightfoot carried him swiftly to the common, 
and there Jem gathered as much of the heath as 


212 


he thought he should want. But what toil it cost 
him before he could make anything like a mat! 
Twenty times he was ready to throw aside the 
heath and give up his project. But still he per- 
severed. All his play hours for three days he spent 
at this task, and at length he conquered the diffi- 
culty of fastening the heath substantially together, 
and finished a mat. He was extremely happy, 
sung and danced round it, looked at it again and 
again, and could hardly leave off looking at it when 
it was time to go to bed. He laid it by his bed- 
side, that he might see it the moment he awoke in 
the morning. 

Now came the grand pleasure of carrying it to 
his mistress. She was much surprised when she 
saw the mat and heard who made it. After having 
admired it she asked the price. “ Nothing, ma’am,” 
replied Jem. “ I want to give it to you. I made it 
in my play hours, and I’m very glad that you like it.” 

“Well,” said the lady, “spend no more time weed- 
ing in my garden. You can employ yourself better. 
Make as many such mats as you can, and I will 
dispose of them for you.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said Jem, for he thought by 
the lady’s looks that she meant to do him a favor, 


213 


though he repeated to himself, “ Dispose of them, — 
what does that mean ? ” 

The next day he went to work to make more 
mats, and he soon learned to weave the heath very 
well and quickly. With every mat he made he 
found less difficulty, until, instead of making two a 
day, he could make four. At the end of a fortnight 
he had completed eighteen. 

It was Saturday afternoon when he finished them, 
and then, in three journeys, he carried the eighteen 
mats to his mistress’s house, piled them up in the 
hall, and stood with his hat off near the pile, waiting 
for the lady to appear. Presently a folding door at 
the end of the hall opened and he saw her with a 
great many gentlemen and ladies who were rising 
from several tables. 

“ Oh, there is my little boy and his mats,” cried 
the lady ; and, followed by the rest of the company, 
she came into the hall. Jem stepped aside while 
they looked at his mats ; but in a minute or two his 
mistress beckoned to him, and, when he came into 
the middle of the circle, he saw that his pile of mats 
had disappeared. 

“Why do you look so surprised.^” asked the lady, 
smiling. 


214 


“All my mats are gone,” replied Jem; “but you 
are very welcome.” 

“Are we?” said the lady. “Well, hadn’t you 
better take your hat and start for home, then ? It is 
getting late, and you know Lightfoot will wonder 
what has become of you.” 

Jem turned round and picked up his hat, which 
he had left on a chair. But how his countenance 
changed ! The hat was heavy with shillings. 
Every one who had taken a mat had put in two 
shillings, so that for the eighteen mats he had thirty- 
six shillings. 

“ I think you told me you had five and sevenpence 
before,” said the lady, “ and I believe I must add a 
sixpence, to make two guineas for you in all.” 

“Two guineas!” exclaimed Jem, clapping his 
hands and forgetting at the moment where he was. 
“ Oh, Lightfoot 1 Oh, mother I ” 

“ We won’t keep you any longer,” said his mistress, 
“ only I have one thing to ask you, — that I may 
be by when you show your treasure to your 
mother.” 

“ Then come with me now,” said Jem. 

“Not now,” replied the lady, laughing; “but 
I will go to Ashton to-morrow afternoon. Per- 


215 


haps your mother can let me have a few straw- 
berries.” 

“Yes,” said Jem, “and I’ll search the garden for 
them myself.” 

He now went home, but felt it a great restraint 
to wait till the next afternoon before he told his 
mother. Presently 
he stepped out to the 
stable. 

“ Lightfoot, you’re 
not to be sold to- 
morrow,” said he, pat- 
ting him. 

Then he got out 
his money and began 
counting it. While 
he was intent on this, 

he was startled by a noise at the door. He looked 
up and saw Lazy Lawrence enter, followed by a 
boy in a red jacket, who had a cock under his 
arm. The intruders were a good deal startled when 
they got to the middle of the stable and saw Jem. 

“We — we — we came,” stammered Lazy Law- 
rence, “ I mean, I came to — to — ” 

“To ask you whether you will go with us to 



2I6 


the cockfight on Monday,” continued the other 
boy, in a bold tone. “ See, I’ve a fine cock here, 
and Lawrence told me you were a great friend of 
his. So we came.” 

Lawrence now attempted to say something in 
praise of the pleasures of cockfighting, and in rec- 
ommendation of his new companion, who was 
none other than the stableboy from the inn. But 
Jem, turning his eyes on the cock with a look of 
compassion, said in a low voice to Lawrence, “ Shall 
you like to stand by and see its eyes pecked out ? ” 

“ I don’t know as to that,” said Lawrence. 
“ They say a cockfight is lots of fun. A great 
many go, and, as I’ve nothing else to do. I’m going, 
too.” 

“ But I have something else to do,” declared Jem. 
“ So I shall not go.” 

“ I don’t see how you will spend all your money 
if you never go anywhere,” said Lawrence. 

“ I’ll tell you about that some other time,” 
whispered Jem. 

“ Come along,” cried the stableboy, seizing Law- 
rence by the arm and pulling him away from Jem, 
on whom he cast a look of extreme contempt. 
“ He’s not the sort. Leave him alone.” 


217 


The moment he got Lawrence out of the stable 
he said: “ What a fool you are ! You might have 
known he would not go, else we should soon 
have tricked him out of his four and sevenpence. 
But how came you to talk of four and seven- 
pence? I saw in the manger a broken flower- 
pot with a whole handful of silver pieces in it.” 

“ Indeed ! ” exclaimed Lawrence. 

“You owe me half a crown,” the stableboy went 
on, “ and I must be paid to-night. See you get the 
money somehow or other. Jem has plenty, and 
I’ll answer for it he never would miss half a 
crown out of all that silver.” 

“ But to steal ! ” said Lawrence, with horror. 

“ It is not stealing. We don’t mean to steal — 
only to borrow. If we win at the cockfight, as 
we certainly shall, we’ll pay it back, and he’ll never 
know anything of the matter. So what harm will 
it do him ? ” 

Lawrence made no reply, and the stableboy 
continued arguing and urging until Lawrence 
reluctantly promised to help in a plan for getting 
possession of a half crown of Jem’s money. Late 
that night, Lawrence heard somebody tap at his 
window. He knew well who it was, for this was 


2I8 


the signal agreed on between him and the stable- 
boy. He lay quite still till he heard a second tap. 
Then he got up, dressed himself, and opened the 
window, from which he could easily step out 
on the ground. “ Are you ready ? ” said his 
companion, and Lawrence climbed through the 
window. 

When they got to Lightfoot’s stable, a black 
cloud was just passing over the moon and it 
was quite dark. “ Let us go back,” whispered 
Lawrence. 

“ This is no time to go back,” replied the other, 
opening the door, and he pushed Lawrence into 
the stable. 

Lawrence did not return as soon as his com- 
panion, who watched at the door, expected, 
and the stableboy began to be uneasy. “ Have 
you got the money ? ” he asked. “ What are you 
about ? Make haste, I hear a noise.” 

“ I am feeling for a half crown, but I can’t find 
one,” replied Lawrence. 

“ Bring all together,” corhmanded the stable- 
boy. 

So Lawrence carried Jem’s broken flowerpot, 
with all the money in it, to the door. The black 


219 


cloud had now passed over the moon, and the 
light shone full on them. “What do we stand 
here for.f^” said the stableboy, snatching the 
flowerpot out of Lawrence’s trembling hands and 
pulling him away from the door. 

“You won’t take it all!” cried Lawrence. 
“You said you’d only take half a crown!” 

“ Hold your tongue,” replied the other, walking 
on. “ If ever I’m hanged, it shan’t be for half a 
crown.” 

Lawrence’s blood ran cold in his veins, and he 
felt as if his hair stood on end. Not another 
word passed. His accomplice carried off the 
money, and Lawrence crept to his restless bed. 
All night he was starting from frightful dreams; 
or else, broad awake, he lay listening to every 
noise, scarcely daring to breathe. He thought the 
morning would never come ; but when it was day, 
and he heard the birds sing, and saw everything 
look cheerful as usual, he felt still more miserable. 
It was Sunday morning, and the bell rang for 
church. The children of the village, dressed in 
their best clothes, went flocking by, and Jem 
among them. 

“ Well, Lawrence,” said Jem, as he passed and 


220 


saw Lawrence leaning against his father’s door, 
“ why do you look so black ? ” 

“ I ! ” was Lawrence’s startled response. “ What 
makes you say that I look black? ” 

“ Nay, then,” said Jem, “ you look white enough 
now, if that will please you ; for you’ve become pale 
as death.” 

Lawrence turned abruptly away, conscious that 
guilt was written in his face. Dreading the 
moment when Jem should discover his loss, Law- 
rence dared not stay at home, and, not knowing 
what to do or where to go, he mechanically went to 
his old haunt at the stable yard. He lurked there- 
about all day with his accomplice, who tried in 
vain to quiet his fears and raise his spirits by talk- 
ing of next day’s cockfight. It was agreed that, as 
soon as the dusk of evening came on, they should 
go together to a certain lonely field and there divide 
their booty. 

In the meantime Jem, when he returned from 
church, was very full of business preparing for the 
reception of his mistress. He had informed his 
mother of the intended visit, and, while she was 
arranging the kitchen and their little, parlor, he ran 
to search the strawberry beds. 


221 


“Why, my Jem, how merry you are to-day!” 
said his mother, when he came in with the straw- 
berries and was jumping about the room playfully. 
“ Have in mind that to-morrow is fair-day, and 
Lightfoot must then be sold. I bade Farmer Truck 
call for him to-night.” 

A carriage passed the window and stopped at 
the door. Jem ran out. His mistress had arrived. 
She came in smiling, and, by praising the neatness 
of everything in the house, she made Jem’s mother 
smile, too. 

A knock was heard at the door. Farmer Truck 
had come for Lightfoot. Dame Prescott’s face fell. 
“ Fetch him out, dear,” said she, turning to her son ; 
but Jem had already gone to the stable. 

“ Sit ye down, farmer,” said the widow, after they 
had waited for some time in expectation of Jem’s 
return. “ He’ll not hurry himself. My boy’s a fool 
about that horse.” Trying to laugh, she added : “ I 
knew how Lightfoot and he would be loath enough 
to part. He won’t bring him out till the last 
minute. So sit ye down, neighbor.” 

Just then Jem, with a pale, wild countenance, 
came back. “ What’s the matter ? ” asked his 
mistress. 


222 


For a moment he tried to speak, but could not. 
Then, leaning his head against his mother, he cried : 
“ It’s gone ! It’s all gone ! ” and he sobbed as if 
his heart would break. 

“ What’s gone, love? ” inquired his mother. 

“ My two guineas, — Lightfoot’s two guineas. I 
went to fetch them to give you, mammy ; but the 
broken flowerpot I put them in is gone, and the 
money, too, — all gone ! ” repeated he, checking his 
sobs. “ I saw the money safe last night and was 
showing it to Lightfoot, and I was so happy to 
think I’d earned it all myself; and I thought how 
surprised and glad you’d be.” 

His mother listened with astonishment, while his 
mistress stood in silence, looking at Jem as if she 
suspected the truth of his story. “This is a very 
strange thing ! ” said she, gravely. “ How came you 
to have all your money in a broken flowerpot in 
the stable ? How came you not to give it to your 
mother to take care of ? ” 

“Why, don’t you remember,” said Jem, glancing 
up in the midst of his tears, “ you yourself bade me 
not to tell her about it till you were by ? ” 

But the lady had lived too long in the world to 
be without suspicion, and she went on questioning 


223 


him in such a severe manner. that at last he made 
no answer. 

“Oh, Jem, Jem! why don’t you speak to the 
lady ? ” said his mother. 

“ I have spoken, and spoken the truth,” Jem an- 
swered, “ and she will not believe me.” 

The farmer now got up to go, saying he could wait 
no longer, and Jem silently went to bring out Light- 
foot. The lady sat down by the parlor window, 
while the widow stood at the door. In a minute or 
two Jem appeared, leading Lightfoot, and, without 
saying a word, put the bridle into Farmer Truck’s 
hand. 

At this instant a party of milkwomen came along, 
and one of them, having set down her pail, stepped 
up behind Jem and gave him a smart blow on the 
back. He looked up. 

“ Don’t you know me ? ” said she. 

“ I forget,” replied Jem. “ I think I have seen 
your face before, but I forget where.” 

“ Do you so ? And perhaps you’ll tell me,” said 
she, showing him something in her hand, “ that you 
forget who gave you this, and who charged you not 
to part with it, too.” 

On her palm appeared Jem’s lucky penny. “ Oh, 


224 


where did you find it? ” cried Jem, seizing it ; “and 
have you — oh, tell me — have you the rest of my 
money ? ” 

“ I know nothing of your money,” said the milk- 
woman. “ I don’t understand what you mean.” 

“ But pray tell me where did you find this ? ” 

“ With them you gave it to, I suppose,” responded 
the milkwoman, turning away to take up her milk- 
pail. 

Jem’s mistress now called to her through the win- 
dow and joined in his entreaties to know how she 
came by the silver penny. 

“ Why, madam,” said she, “ I was bringing the 
milk to the village and was going along a field 
path, and I came to a stile and rested my pail on it 
and sets me down. Then there comes two boys, 
one about the size of him,” pointing to Jem, “and 
one a matter taller, but bad-looking like. I did not 
think to stir to make way for them, and, as they 
seemed in a desperate hurry, they did not wait to go 
over the stile, but pulled at a gate that was near by. 
The gate would not open, for it was tied with a 
stout cord, and one of ’em whips out a knife. Now 
have you a knife about you, sir ? ” continued the 
milkwoman, addressing the farmer. 


225 


He gave her his knife. “ Here now,' ma’am, 
said she, holding it up, “just sticking between the 
blade and the haft was the silver penny. The lad 
took no notice ; but when he opened the knife, out 
fell the penny. Still he takes no heed, but cut 
the cord, and through the gate they went, and out of 
sight in half a minute. I picked up the penny, for 
I mistrusted that it was the very one my husband 
had a long time and gave to him,” pointing to Jem 
again; “and as soon as I looked at it I knew it 
was the same by a mark my husband had put on 
it. I charged the boy not to part with it.” 

“ And I never did part with it,” affirmed Jem. 

“ Those boys have robbed him,” exclaimed the 
farmer. “ It is they who have all his money.” 

“ Which way did they go ? ” cried Jem. “ I’ll run 
after them.” 

“ No, no,” said the lady, and she called to her ser- 
vant and desired him to ride after them with one of 
her horses. 

“ Ay,” added Farmer Truck, “ do you take the 
road and I’ll take the field way, and I’ll be bound 
we’ll have ’em presently.” 

Confused reports of the pursuit of the thieves, 
and of the fine lady who was at Dame Prescott’s, 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 1 5 


226 


quickly spread through the village and drew the 
people from their houses. They crowded round 
Jem to hear the story. Every eye was on the 
stretch ; and now some of the children, who had 
run down the lane, came back shouting: “Here 

they are ! They’ve 
got the thieves.” 

The man on 
horseback carried 
one boy before him, 
and the farmer, 
striding along, 
dragged another. 
The latter boy had 

Lawrence a prisoner on a red jacket, 

which Jem immediately recollected. He scarcely 
dared lift his eyes to look at the boy on horseback. 
“ It must be Lawrence,” said he to himself. 

The man rode on as fast as the people would let 
him. The boy’s hat was slouched, and his head 
hung down, so that nobody could see his face. At 
this moment there was a disturbance in the crowd. 
A man who was half drunk pushed his way for- 
ward, swearing that nobody should stop him, — that 
he had a right to see, and he would see. He forced 



22 / 


a passage, and staggered up to the lady’s servant 
just as the servant was lifting down the boy he had 
carried before him. 

“I will — I tell you I will see the thief!” cried 
the drunken man, pushing up the boy’s hat. 

It was his own son. “ Lawrence 1 ” exclaimed the 
wretched father. 

The shock sobered him at once, and he hid his 
face in his hands. There was an awful silence. 
Lawrence fell on his knees, and, in a voice that 
could scarcely be heard, made a full confession of 
all the circumstances of his guilt. 

Meanwhile, the farmer was emptying Lawrence’s 
pockets; and when the money appeared, all his 
former companions in the village looked at each 
other with astonishment and terror. As for the 
hardened wretch, his accomplice, every one was im- 
patient to have him sent to jail. He had put on a 
bold, insolent manner till he heard Lawrence’s confes- 
sion, and the other half of the money had been found 
on him. Then he betrayed strong signs of fear. 

“ We must take these boys before the justice,” 
said the farmer. 

“ Oh I ” cried Jem, springing forward. “ Let Law- 
rence go, won’t you ? ” 


228 


Lawrence’s father stood by, wringing his hands in 
despair. “ It’s all my fault,” cried he. “ I brought 
him up in idleness.” 

“ But he’ll never be idle any more,” said Jem, and 
added, turning toward his mistress, “Won’t you 
speak for him, ma’am ? ” 

“ Don’t ask the lady to speak for him,” said the 
farmer. “ It’s better he should go to jail now than 
to the gallows by and by.” 

Nothing more was said, for everybody felt the 
truth of the farmer’s speech. Lawrence was eventu- 
ally sent to jail for a month, and the stableboy was 
imprisoned for a much longer period. 

During Lawrence’s confinement, Jem often visited 
him, and carried him such little presents as he could 
afford to give. Lawrence’s heart was touched by 
this kindness, and Jem’s example struck him very 
forcibly. When he had served his time in prison, 
he came forth resolved to-set immediately to work ; 
and, to the surprise of all who knew him, soon be- 
came remarkable for industry. He was busy early 
and late, established a new character, and forever 
lost the name of “ Lazy Lawrence.” 


229 


THE ORPHANS 

Near the ruins of the Castle of Rossmore, in 
Ireland, there once lived a widow and her four 
children, in a small cabin. As long as the widow 
was able to work she was very industrious, and was 
accounted the best spinner in the parish ; but she 
at last fell ill, so that she could not sit at her wheel, 
and was obliged to give it up to her eldest daughter, 
Mary. 

Mary was at this time about twelve years old. 
One evening she was sitting at the foot of her 
mother’s bed spinning, and her little brother and 
sisters were gathered round the fire, eating their 
potatoes and milk for supper. 

“ Bless them, the poor young creatures ! ” said 
the widow, who, as she lay on the bed, which she 
knew must be her deathbed, was thinking of what 
would become of her children after she was gone. 

Mary stopped her wheel ; for she was afraid 
that the noise of it had wakened her mother, and 
would hinder her from going to sleep again. “ No 
need to stop the wheel for me, Mary, dear,” said 
her mother. “ I was not asleep, nor is it that which 


230 


keeps me from sleep ; but don’t overwork yourself, 
Mary.” 

“ Oh, no fear of that,” replied Mary. “ I’m strong 
and hearty.” 

“ So was I once,” said her mother. 

“ And so you will be again, I hope,” was Mary’s 
response. 

“’Tis folly, Mary, to hope for that,” the widow 
declared; “but one thing comforts my heart, even 
as I am lying here. Not a soul in the wide world 
has to complain of me. Though poor, I have 
lived honest, and I have brought you up to be 
the same, Mary, and I’m sure the little ones will 
take after you.” 

Here the children, who had finished eating their 
supper, came round the bed to listen to what 
their mother was saying. She was tired of speak- 
ing, for she was very weak ; but she took their 
little hands, as they laid them on the bed, and, 
joining them all together, she said : “ Bless you, 
dears, bless you. Love and help one another all 
you can. Good night ! Good-by ! ” 

Mary took the children away to their beds, for 
she saw that their mother was too ill to say more ; 
but Mary did not herself know how ill she was. 


23 


Her mother never spoke rightly afterward, and 
said little except to talk in a confused way about 
some debts, and one in particular which she owed 
to a schoolmistress for the children’s schooling. 
At the end of the week she was dead and buried, 
and the orphans were left alone in their cabin. 

The two youngest girls, Peggy and Anne, were 
six and seven years old. Edmund was not yet 
nine ; but he was a stout, healthy boy, and well 
disposed to work. He had been used to bring 
home peat from the bog on his back, and to lead 
horses ; and he often went on errands for gen- 
tlemen’s families, who paid him sixpence or a 
shilling, according to the distance. He told Mary 
to have a good heart, for he would every year 
grow able to do more and more. 

As for Anne and Peggy, it was little that they 
could do ; but they were good children. 

Mary’s first care was about the debts her mother 
had mentioned to her, and for which the widow 
had left money done up carefully in separate 
papers. When all these debts were paid, except 
what was due for a year’s schooling to the school- 
mistress in a neighboring village, word came to 
Mary that she must leave the cabin, for she was 


232 

too young to have a house to herself, and a new 
tenant had engaged it ; and that the only thing 
she had to do was to get some neighbor to take 
in her and her brother and sisters for charity’s 
sake. 

Mr. Harvey, the gentleman on whose estate she 
lived, was in England, and in his absence all was 


managed by a 
h ar d-h e a r t e d 
agent named Hop- 
kins. Mary went 
immediately to 
Mr. Hopkins and 
begged him to let 



The ruined Castle of Rossmore 


her stay another year in the cabin, but this was 
refused. It was now the 25th of September, and 
he said that the new tenant would come in on 
the 29th, so that she must prepare to quit the 
house at once. Mary could not bear the thought 
of begging any of the neighbors to take her and 
her brother and sisters in, for the neighbors were 
all poor. So she bethought herself that she might 
find shelter in the old Castle of Rossmore, where 
she and the other children had often played at 
hide-and-seek. The kitchen and two rooms near 


233 


it were yet covered in tolerably well ; and she 
thought a little thatch would make them comfort- 
able through the winter. The agent consented to 
let her live there on her paying him half a guinea 
in hand, and promising to pay the same yearly. 

Into these lodgings the orphans now removed, 
taking with them two bedsteads, a stool, chair, and 
a table, a cupboard which contained what little 
clothes they had, and a chest in which they had 
two hundred pounds of meal. The chest was 
carried for them by some of the charitable neigh- 
bors, who likewise added to the children’s scanty 
stock of potatoes and peat what would make it last 
till spring. 

The children were well thought of and pitied, 
because their mother was known to have been all 
her life honest and industrious. “Sure,” said one 
of the neighbors, “ we can do no less than give a 
helping hand to the poor orphans that are so ready 
to help themselves.” 

So one thatched the rooms the children were to 
occupy, and another took their cow to graze on con- 
dition of having half the milk, and another said 
they would be welcome to share his potatoes if their 
own ever fell short. 


234 


The half guinea which Mr. Hopkins required for 
letting Mary into the castle was what she had 
planned to pay to the schoolmistress. Mary went 
to her and took her goat along, and offered it in 
payment of the debt, as she had no money left ; but 
the schoolmistress would not receive the goat. She 
said that she could afford to wait for her money till 
Mary was able to pay it; that she knew her to be an 
honest, industrious little girl, and worthy of being 
trusted. Mary thanked her, and she was glad to 
take the goat home, as she was very fond of it. 

Being now settled in their new home, the children 
worked regularly every day. Mary spun nine skeins 
daily, besides doing all that was to be done in the 
house ; Edmund got fourpence a day by his work ; 
and Peggy and Anne earned twopence apiece at 
the paper mills, where they were employed to sort 
rags and to cut them into small pieces. 

When Anne finished work one day, she went to 
the master of the paper mill and asked him if she 
might have two sheets of large white paper. She 
offered a penny in payment ; but the master, learn- 
ing that she wanted the paper to make a garland 
to put on her mother’s grave, handed her the two 
sheets for which she had asked, and would not take 


any pay. Anne and Peggy cut out the garland., and, 
after it was done, Mary and Edmund went along 
with them to the burial place. It was just a month 
after their mother’s death. 

While the orphans were at the grave with this 
garland, two young ladies, who were returning 
home from an evening walk, happened to stop at 
the gate of the churchyard to look at the setting 
sun. As the ladies were standing at the gate they 
heard a voice near them crying, “ Oh, mother ! 
mother ! Are you gone forever ? ” 

They could not see any one. So they walked 
softly round to the other side of the church, and 
there they saw Mary kneeling beside a grave, on 
which her brother and sisters were laying their 
white garland. 

Isabella and Caroline, the two ladies, passed on 
without disturbing the poor children ; but they 
stopped in the village to inquire about them at 
the house of the schoolmistress. She gave a good 
account of the orphans, and particularly commended 
Mary’s honesty in having immediately paid all her 
mother’s debts to the utmost farthing, as far as her 
money would go. She told the ladies how Mary 
had been turned out of her house, and how she had 


236 


offered her goat, of which she was very fond, to dis- 
charge a debt due for her schooling. In short, the 
schoolmistress spoke so well of Mary that the ladies 
went to the old Castle of Rossmore to see her the 
next day. 

They found the room in which the children lived 
as clean and neat as such a ruined place could be 
made. Edmund was out working with a farmer; 
Mary was spinning, and her little sisters were 
measuring some bogberries, of which they had 
gathered a basketful for sale. Isabella, after telling 
Mary what an excellent report she had heard of 
her, inquired what it was she most wanted ; and 
Mary said that she had just worked up all her flax, 
and she was most in want of more flax for her 
wheel. 

Isabella promised that she would send her a 
fresh supply of flax; and Caroline bought the bog- 
berries from the little girls, and gave them money 
enough to buy a pound of coarse cotton for knit- 
ting, as Mary said that she could teach them how 
to knit. 

The supply of flax which Isabella sent was of 
great service to Mary, and kept her in employment 
for more than a month; and when she sold the 


237 


yarn she spun with it, she had money enough to 
buy some warm flannel for winter wear. Besides 
spinning well, she had learned at school to do plain 
sewing ; and Isabella and Caroline gave her some 
to do for them, by which she earned a great deal 
more than she could by spinning. In her leisure 
hours she taught her sisters to read and write ; and 
Edmund, with part of the money he earned by his 
work out of doors, p'kid a schoolmaster for teaching 
him a little arithmetic. 

The servant who brought Mary the sewing was 
an Englishman named Gilbert, and he became very 
friendly with the children. Whenever his master 
wanted to send a messenger anywhere, Gilbert 
always employed Edmund, whom he found both 
quick and exact in doing errands, and, on further 
acquaintance, liked better and better. 

One day, after Edmund had waited a great while 
at a gentleman’s house for an answer to a letter, he 
was so impatient to get home that he ran off with- 
out it. When he was questioned by Gilbert why he 
did not bring an answer, he told exactly the truth ; 
and though Gilbert scolded him for not waiting, yet 
Edmund’s telling the truth was more to his advan- 
tage than any excuse he could have made. 


238 


The orphans continued to assist one another 
in their work, according to their strength and 
abilities; and they went on in this manner for 
three years. With what Mary got by her spin- 
ning and sewing, and Edmund by leading horses, 
going on errands, etc., and with the earnings of little 
Peggy and Anne, the family contrived to live com- 
fortably. Isabella and Caroline often visited them, 
and sometimes gave them clothes, and sometimes 
flax or cotton for their spinning and knitting. 

When Edmund was about twelve years old, 
his friend Gilbert sent for him one day, and told 
him that his master had given him leave to have 
a boy in the house to assist him, and had told 
him he might choose one in the neighborhood. 
Several were anxious to get the place; but Gil- 
bert said that he preferred Edmund before them 
all, because he knew him to be an industrious, 
good-natured lad who always told the truth. 

So Edmund went into service at the vicarage; 
and his master was the father of Isabella and 
Caroline. He found his new way of life very 
pleasant; for he was well fed, well clothed, and 
well treated. He was mindful to do all that 
Gilbert required of him, and he was so obliging 


239 


to his fellow-servants they could not help liking 
him. But there was one thing which was at 
first rather disagreeable to him. He was obliged 
to wear shoes and stockings, and ^ they hurt his 
feet. Besides this, when he waited on the table, 
at dinner, he made such a noise in walking that 
the other servants laughed at him. He told his 
sister Mary, and she made for him a pair of 
cloth shoes with soles of platted hemp. In these 
he could walk without making the least noise ; 
and, as these shoes could not be worn out of 
doors, he was sure to change them before he 
went out, and consequently always had clean 
shoes to put on in the house. 

It was soon remarked by the menservants that 
he had left off clumping so heavily, and it was 
observed by the maids that he never dirtied the 
stairs or passages with his shoes. When he was 
praised for these things, he said it was his sister 
Mary who should be thanked and not he ; and he 
showed the shoes she had contrived for him. 

Isabella’s maid bespoke a pair immediately, 
and sent Mary a piece of pretty calico for the 
outside. Edmund advised Mary to try platted 
pack thread instead of hemp for the soles, and 


240 


she found that this looked neater and was likely 
to last longer. When the shoes were finished, the 
maid showed them to her mistress. 

Isabella and Caroline were so pleased with 
Mary’s ingenuity that they ordered two dozen of 


these shoes, and 
gave her three 
yards of colored 
cloth to use in 
making them, and 
tape for the bind- 
ing. When the 
shoes were com- 
pleted, Isabella and 
Caroline disposed 
of them for her 
among their ac- 
quaintances, and 



Mary making shoes 


got three shillings a pair for them. The young 
ladies, as soon as they collected the money, walked 
to the old castle, and Mary received the reward of 
her industry with gratitude. They advised her to 
continue the shoemaking trade, as they found the 
shoes were well liked, and they knew where to 
dispose of more in Dublin. 



241 


Mary, encouraged by these friends, went on 
with her little manufacture with increased activity. 
Peggy and Anne platted the pack thread, and 
basted the vamps and linings together ready for 
her. Edmund was allowed to come home to 
spend an hour every morning, and he got up 
early in order to reach home promptly and take 
his share in the shoemaking. It was his busi- 
ness to hammer the soles flat, and he performed 
his task with so much cheerfulness, and sang so 
merrily at his work, that his visit was always an 
hour of joy to the family. 

Mary had presently employment enough on her 
hands. Orders came to her for shoes from many 
families in the neighborhood, and she could not 
get them finished fast enough. She, however, in 
the midst of her hurry, found time to make a very 
pretty pair as a present for her schoolmistress, who, 
now that she saw her pupil prospering, consented 
to receive the amount of her old debt. Several of 
the children who attended her school were delighted 
with the sight of Mary’s present, and went to 
Rossmore Castle to find out how the shoes were 
made. When they saw how happy the little shoe- 
makers seemed while busy at work, they longed to 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 1 6 


242 


take some share in what was going forward. One 
begged Mary to let her help plat the pack thread for 
the soles ; another assisted Peggy and Anne to baste 
in the linings ; and all who could get employment 
were pleased, for the idle ones were shoved out of 
the way. It became a custom with the children of 
the village to resort to the old castle in their play 
hours ; and it was surprising to see how much was 
done by ten or twelve of them, each doing but a 
little at a time. 

One morning, when Edmund and a number of the 
others were busy at their work, all sitting round 
the meal chest which served them for a table, they 
were suddenly startled by a noise as loud as thunder. 
Some village children, who were blowing soap- 
bubbles in a sort of outer court of the castle, came 
running precipitately into the room. No one knew 
what had happened, and they all began to ques- 
tion and exclaim. Then, in the midst of their 
fright and confusion, there was another and a louder 
crash. 

The children turned pale and stood motionless, 
except Edmund, who threw down his hammer and 
hurried out to learn what was the matter. Mary 
soon followed him, and they saw that a great 


243 


chimney of the old ruins at the farther side of 
the castle had fallen. 

The part of the castle in which they lived seemed 
to be perfectly safe ; but the village children were 
terrified, and, thinking that the whole would come 
tumbling down directly, they ran to their homes as 
fast as they could. Edmund, who was a courageous 
lad, laughed at their cowardice ; but Mary very 
prudently persuaded her brother to ask an experi- 
enced mason, who was building at his master’s, to 
come and give his opinion whether their part of the 
castle was safe to live in or not. The mason came 
and said that the rooms they inhabited might last 
through the winter, but that no part of the ruins 
could stand another year. 

Mary was sorry to leave the place where they had 
lived in peace and content ever since her mother’s 
death ; but she had now money enough to pay the 
rent of a comfortable cabin, and, without losing any 
time, she went to the village to see what she could 
do. She found just one vacant house. It belonged 
to Mr. Harvey, her landlord, who was still in Eng- 
land, and it was newly built, had a slate roof, and was 
neatly fitted up within ; bul the rent was six guineas 
a year. This was far above what Mary could afford 


244 


to pay. Three guineas, she thought, was the high- 
est rent she could venture. Besides, she heard that 
several proposals had been made to Mr. Harvey for 
this house, and she despaired of getting it. 

Her brother was still more vexed than she was 
that she could not find a place near him. He offered 
to give a guinea yearly toward the rent out of his 
wages ; and Gilbert spoke to the steward and 
inquired whether, among any of those who had given 
in proposals, there might be one who would be con- 
tent with a part of the house, and who would join 
with Mary in paying the rent. None could be 
found but a woman who was a great scold, and a 
man who was famous for going to law about every 
trifle with his neighbors. Mary did not choose to 
have anything to do with these people. 

She returned home to the old castle, mortified at 
her lack of success ; for she knew Anne and Peggy 
expected to hear that she had found a nice house in 
the village near their brother. 

“ Bad news for you, Peggy,” cried she, as soon as 
she got home. 

“ And bad news for you, Mary,” said Peggy, look- 
ing very sorrowful. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” inquired Mary. 


245 


“Your poor goat is dead,” replied Peggy. “ There 
she is yonder, lying under the great corner stone of 
the old chimney. You can just see one leg. We 
cannot lift the stone off, it is so heavy. I remember, 
early this morning, I saw the goat rubbing herself, 
and butting with her horns against this very stone 
at the base of the tottering chimney.” 

“ Many’s the time,” said Mary, “ I have driven 
the poor thing away from that place. I was always 
afraid she would shake the great, ugly stone down 
on her at last.” 

The goat, which had long been a favorite of 
Mary and her sisters, was lamented by them all. 
When Edmund came, he helped to move the great 
stone off, that they might bury the poor animal ; 
and as they were doing this, Anne found an odd- 
looking piece of money, which seemed neither like 
a half-penny nor a shilling nor a guinea. 

“ Here are more, — a great many more of them ! ” 
exclaimed Peggy; and on searching the rubbish, they 
discovered a small iron pot that appeared to have 
been filled with the coins, as a considerable number 
of them were found about the spot where it had fallen. 

On examining the coins, Edmund thought that 
several of them looked like gold, and the girls cried 


246 


with great joy, “Oh, Mary ! Mary ! This is come to 
us at just the right time. Now you can pay for the 


slated house. 
Never was any- 
thing so lucky ! ” 



But Mary, 
though nothing 
could have pleased 


her better than to 


have been able to 
pay for the house. 


The discovery of the gold 


observed that they could not honestly spend any 
of the money, as it belonged to the owner of the 
castle. Edmund agreed with her, and it was 
decided to carry it all immediately to Mr. Hopkins, 
the agent. Peggy and Anne begged to go along, 
too, and they started. 

On their way they stopped at the vicarage to 
show their treasure to Gilbert, who took it to 
the young ladies, Isabella and Caroline, and told 
them how it had been found. Isabella, who had 
some knowledge of chemistry, discovered, by touch- 
ing the coins with nitric acid, that several of them 
were of gold, and consequently of great value. 
Caroline also found out that many of the coins were 


247 


very valuable as curiosities, especially certain ones 
of the reign of Henry the Seventh, which, from 
their scarcity, were highly appreciated by collectors. 

Isabella and Caroline, having doubts of the agent’s 
character, took the precaution to count and make a 
list of the coins, and to mark each of them with a 
cross, so small it was hardly visible to the naked 
eye, though easily seen through a magnifying glass. 
They also asked their father, who was well ac- 
quainted with Mr. Harvey, the gentleman to whom 
Rossmore Castle belonged, to write to him and tell 
him how well these orphans had behaved about the 
treasure they had found. The value of the coins 
was estimated at about thirty or forty guineas. 

A few days after the fall of the chimney at Ross- 
more Castle, as Mary and her sisters were sitting at 
their work, an old woman came hobbling in, leaning 
on a crabstick. She had a broken tobacco pipe in 
her mouth ; her head was wrapped up in two large 
red and blue handkerchiefs, with their corners hang- 
ing far down over the back of her neck ; and she 
wore neither shoes nor stockings on her broad feet. 
Her petticoat was jagged at the bottom, and the 
skirt of her gown was turned up over her shoulders 
to serve instead of her cloak, which she had sold for 


248 


whisky. This old woman was known among the 
country people by the name of Goody Grope, 
because she had for many years been in the habit of 
groping in old castles of the neighborhood, search^ 
ing for treasure. In her youth she had heard some 
one talking in a whisper of an old prophecy, found 
in a bog near where she lived, which said that — 

Not many St. Patrick’s Days shall come about 
Before there will be found 
A treasure underground, 

Within twenty miles around.” 

This prophecy made a deep impression on her. 
She also dreamed of it three times; and, as she 
thought the dreams were a sure token that the 
prophecy was to come true, she from that time 
forward gave up her spinning wheel and her knit- 
ting, and could think of nothing but hunting for the 
treasure that was to be found “ within twenty miles 
around.” 

Year after year St. Patrick’s Day came about 
without her ever finding a farthing by all her grop- 
ing. To comfort herself for her disappointments, 
and to give her courage for fresh searches, she took 
to drinking. She sold all she had by degrees ; but 


249 


still she fancied that the lucky day would come that 
would pay for all. 

Goody Grope, however, reached her sixtieth year 
and never yet had seen this lucky day. Now, in 
her old age, she was a beggar, without a house to 
shelter her, a bed to lie on, or food to put into her 
mouth, save what she begged from those who had 
trusted more than she had to industry and less to 
luck. 

“ Oh, Mary, honey ! ” said she, as she entered the 
room where the orphans were working. “ Give me a 
potato and a sup of something, for the love o’ mercy. 
Not a bit have I had all day except a glass of 
whisky and a half-pennyworth of tobacco.” 

Mary immediately set before her some milk, and 
picked a large potato out of the bowl for her. She 
was sorry to see such an old woman in so wretched 
a condition. Goody Grope sat herself down close 
to the fire, and, after she had sighed and groaned 
and smoked for some time, she said to Mary, 
“ Well, and what have you done with the treasure 
you had the luck to find ? ” 

Mary told her she had carried it to Mr. Hopkins, 
the agent. 

“ That’s not what I would have done in your 


250 


place,” commented the old woman. “ When good 
luck came to you, what a shame to turn your back 
on it ! But it is idle talking of what’s done. I’ll try 
my luck in this here castle. I was told it was more 
than twenty miles from our bog, or I would have 
dug here long ago ; but better late than never.” 

Mary was much alarmed by this speech, and not 
without reason ; for she knew that, if Goody Grope 
once set to work at the foundations of the old Castle 
of Rossmore, their home would be safe no longer. 
It was in vain to talk to Goody Grope of the danger 
of burying herself under the ruins, or of the im- 
probability of her meeting with another pot of coins. 
She bade Mary and her sisters not to waste their 
breath advising their elders ; for that, let them say 
what they would, she was determined to fall to work 
the next morning, “ barring you’ll make it worth my 
while to let your castle alone.” 

“ And what will make it worth your while } ” 
asked Mary ; for she saw that she must either 
get into a quarrel, or give up her habitation, or 
comply with the conditions of this provoking old 
woman. 

Half a crown. Goody Grope said, was the least 
she could be content to take. 


251 


Mary paid the half crown, and was in hope she 
had got rid forever of her tormentor ; but scarcely 
was the week at an end before the old woman 
appeared again, and threatened to begin digging 
at once unless she had something given her to 
buy tobacco. 

The next day, and the next, and the next. Goody 
Grope came on the same errand; and poor Mary, 
who could ill afford to supply her constantly with 
half-pence, at last exclaimed, “ I am sure the finding 
of this treasure has not been any good luck to 
us, but quite the contrary. I wish we had never 
found it.” 

Mary did not yet know how much she was to 
suffer on account of the unfortunate pot of coins. 
Mr. Hopkins, the agent, imagined that no one 
knew of the discovery of the treasure but himself 
and the orphans. So, not being as honest as they 
were, he resolved to keep it for his own use. He 
was surprised some weeks afterward to receive a 
letter from his employer, Mr. Harvey, demanding 
from him the coins which had been discovered at 
Rossmore Castle. Hopkins had sold the gold 
coins and some of the others ; but he flattered 
himself that the children, and the young ladies. 


252 


to whom he now found they had been shown, 
could not tell whether what they had seen were 
gold or not; and he was not in the least appre- 
hensive that those of Henry the Seventh’s reign 
would be reclaimed from him, as he thought they 
had escaped attention. So he sent Mr. Harvey 
the silver coins, and others of little value, and 
apologized for not having mentioned them before 
by saying that he considered them as mere rubbish. 

Mr. Harvey, in reply, observed that he could not 
consider as rubbish the gold coins which were 
among them when they were discovered; and he 
inquired why these gold coins, and those of the 
reign of Henry the Seventh, were not sent to 
him. 

Mr. Hopkins denied that he had received any 
such, and he was thunderstruck when Mr. Harvey, 
in response to this falsehood, sent him a list of 
the coins which the orphans had deposited with 
him. He informed him that this list came from 
two ladies who had seen the coins in question. 

The agent thought he had no means of escape 
but by boldly persisting in falsehood. He replied 
that it was very likely such coins had been found 
at Rossmore Castle, and that the ladies alluded 


253 


to had probably seen them; but he positively de- 
clared that they never came to his hands, that he 
restored all which were left with him, and that, 
as to the others, he supposed they must have 
been taken out of the pot by the children on 
their way from the ladies’ house to his. 

The orphans were shocked and astonished when 
they heard from Isabella and Caroline the charge 
that was made against them. They looked at one 
another in silence for some moments. Then Peggy 
exclaimed, “ Sure, Mr. Hopkins has forgotten him- 
self strangely! Does not he remember Edmund’s 
counting the things to him on the great table in 
his hall, and we all standing by ? ” 

“ And don’t you recollect, Mary, your picking 
out the gold ones,” cried Anne, “and telling Mr. 
Hopkins that they were gold, and he said you 
knew nothing of the matter ? I was going to 
tell him that Miss Isabella had tried them, to 
make sure that they were gold ; but just then 
some tenants came in to pay their rent, and he 
pushed us out, at the same time twitching from 
my hand the piece of gold I had taken up to 
show him the bright spot which Miss Isabella 
had cleaned with the stuff she poured on it. I 


254 


believe he was afraid I would steal it, he snatched 
it from my hand in such a hurry. Do, Edmund — 
do, Mary — let us go to him and put him in mind 
of all this.” 

“ I’ll go to him no more,” declared Edmund, 
sturdily. “He is a bad man. Mary, don’t be cast 
down. We have no need to feel badly. We are 
honest.” 

“True,” said Mary; “but is it not hard that we, 
who have lived in peace and honesty with the whole 
world, should now have our good name taken from 
us when — ” 

Mary’s voice faltered. 

“ It can’t be taken from us,” cried Edmund, “ poor 
orphans though we are, and he a rich gentleman. 
Let him say and do what he will, he can’t hurt our 
good name.” 

Edmund was mistaken. The affair was a great 
deal talked of, and the agent spared no effort to 
have the story told his own way. The orphans, 
conscious of their own innocence, took no pains 
about the matter. The consequence was, that all 
who knew them well had no doubt of their honesty ; 
but many, who knew little of them, concluded the 
agent must be in the right. The buzz of scandal 


255 


went on for some time without reaching their ears, 
because they lived very retiredly. One day, how- 
ever, when Mary went to sell some stockings of 
Peggy’s knitting at a neighboring fair, the man to 
whom she sold them bade her write her name, and 
exclaimed on seeing it, “ Ho! ho! mistress. I’d not 
have had any dealings with you had I known your 
name sooner. Where’s the gold you found at Ross- 
more Castle ? ” 

It was in vain that Mary related the facts. She 
saw that she gained no belief, and she left the fair 
as soon as she could, feeling very melancholy. 
Still, she exerted herself every day at her little 
manufacture ; and she endeavored to console her- 
self by reflecting that she had two friends left 
who would not give up her character, and who 
continued steadily to protect her and her sisters. 

Isabella and Caroline everywhere asserted their 
belief in the integrity of the orphans ; but, as the 
agent and his friends constantly repeated that the 
gold coins were taken in coming from their house 
to his, the ladies were blamed by many people for 
persisting to countenance those who were, with 
great reason, suspected to be thieves. The orphans 
were in a worse condition than ever when the win- 


256 


ter came on, and their benefactresses left to spend 
some months in Dublin. The old castle, it was 
true, was likely to last through the winter; but 
though the want of a comfortable house to live in 
was, a little while ago, the uppermost thing in 
Mary’s thoughts, now it was not so. 

One night, as Mary was going to bed, she heard 
a loud knocking at the door. “ Mary, are you up ? 
Let me in,” cried a voice, which she knew to be 
that of Betsy Green, the postmaster’s daughter. 

She let Betsy in, and asked what she could want 
at such a time of night. 

“Waken Anne and Peggy,” said Betsy. “ Here’s 
a letter just come by post for you, and I stepped 
over with it, because I guessed you’d be glad to 
have it, seeing it is in your brother’s handwriting.” 

Peggy and Anne were soon roused, and Mary 
read the letter, which was as follows: — 

“Dear Mary, Anne, and little Peg: Joy! 
Joy! I always said the truth would come out at 
last. But I will not tell you how it has happened 
till we meet, which will be next week; for we 
(I mean master and mistress and the young ladies 
and Gilbert and I) are coming to the vicarage 


257 


to keep Christmas, and a happy Christmas ’tis 
likely to be for honest folks. As for those who are 
not honest, they need not expect to be happy at 
Christmas or any other time. You shall know all 
when we meet. So till then fare ye well. 

“Your joyful and affectionate brother, 

“ Edmund.” 

To comprehend why Edmund is joyful, the reader 
must be informed of certain things which happened 
after Isabella and Caroline arrived in Dublin. One 
morning they went with their father and mother to 
see the library of a nobleman who took generous 
pleasure in sharing the advantages of his wealth with 
all who had any pretensions to science or literature. 
Knowing that the gentleman who was his guest was 
skilled in antiquities, the nobleman opened a drawer 
to ask his opinion concerning some coins which he 
had lately purchased. They were the very same 
which the orphans had found at Rossmore Castle. 
Isabella and Caroline knew them instantly; and, as 
the cross which Isabella had made on each was still 
visible through a magnifying glass, there could be 
no possibility of doubt. 

The nobleman became much interested in the 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT — 1 7 


258 


story of the orphans, and sent immediately for the 
person from whom he had purchased the coins. 
He was a Jew broker. At first he refused to tell 
from whom he got them, because he had bought 
them under a promise of secrecy. Being further 
pressed, he acknowledged that it was made a condi- 
tion in his bargain that he should not sell them to 
any one in Ireland, but that he had been tempted 
by the high price the present owner had offered. 

At last, when the Jew was informed that the 
coins were stolen, and that he would be proceeded 
against as a receiver of stolen goods if he did not 
confess the whole truth, he declared that he had 
purchased them from a gentleman whom he had 
never seen before or since; but he added that he 
could swear to his person if he saw him again. 

Mr. Hopkins, the agent, happened .to be in Dub- 
lin, and Caroline’s father posted the Jew, the next 
day, in the back parlor of a banker’s house, with 
whom Mr. Hopkins had on this day appointed to 
settle some accounts. Mr. Hopkins came. The 
Jew knew him, and swore that he was the man who 
had sold the coins to him. Thus the guilt of the 
agent and the innocence of the orphans were com- 
pletely proved. 


259 


A full account of all that happened was sent to 
England to Mr. Harvey, and a few posts afterward 
there came a letter from him containing a dismissal 
of the dishonest agent, and a reward for the honest 
and industrious orphans. Mr. Harvey desired that 
Mary and her sisters might have the slated house, 
rent free, as long as they should carry on in it any 
useful business. This was the joyful news which 
Edmund had to tell his sisters. 

All the neighbors shared in their joy, and the 
day of their removal from the ruins of Rossmore 
Castle to their new house was the happiest of the 
Christmas holidays. They were not envied for 
their prosperity, because everybody saw that it 
was the reward of their good conduct, — every- 
body except Goody Grope. She exclaimed, as 
she wrung her hands with violent expressions of 
sorrow : “ Bad luck to me ! bad luck to me ! Why 
didn’t I go sooner to that castle.^ It is all luck, 

— all luck in this world ; but I never had any 

luck. Think of the luck of these childer that 
have found a pot of gold, and a slated house 
and all; and here am I, with scarce a rag to 

cover me, and not a potato to put into my mouth I 

— I, that have been looking underground all my 


26 o 


days for treasure, not to have a half-penny at the 
last to buy me tobacco ! ” 

“ That is the very reason you have not a half- 
penny,” said Betsy. “ Here Mary has been work- 
ing hard, and so have her two sisters and her 


brother, for these 
four years past ; and 
they have made 
money for them- 
selves by their own 
industry — and 
friends, too — not by 
luck, but by — ” 



“ Phoo ! phoo ! ” 
interrupted Goody 
Grope, “ don’t be 


Goody Grope and Betsy 


prating. I know as well as you do that they 
found a pot of money by good luck; and is not 
that the cause why they are going to live in the 
slated house now } ” 

“No,” replied the postmaster’s daughter, “this 
house is given to them as a reward. That was 
the word in the letter, for I saw it. Edmund 
showed it to me. This house was given to them 
as a reward for their honesty.” 


Carpenter’s Geographical Readers 

By Frank G. Carpenter 


North America ..... 

. 60 cents 

South America ..... 

. . 60 cents 

Asia ....... 

. 60 cents 

Europe ...... 

. . 70 cents 

Australia, Our Colonies, and Other Islands of the Sea 60 cents 

Africa. (In preparation.') 


These new Geographical Readers are 

by far the most 


attractive and instructive books of their kind ever pub- 
lished. They are not mere compilations of other books 
or stories of imaginary travels, but they are the results of 
the author’s actual journeys through the different coun- 
tries, with personal observations of their native peoples, 
just as they are found to-day in their homes and at their 
work. These journeys and visits are described in such 
simple and engaging manner as to make the books as 
entertaining as stories, while conveying in this attractive 
way, useful knowledge and information. While they are 
written in easy familiar style, and in language not above 
the comprehension of children, they are strictly accurate 
in every detail and statement. 

The books are well supplied with colored maps and 
illustrations, the latter mostly reproductions from original 
photographs taken by the author on the ground. They 
combine studies in geography with stories of travel and 
observation in a manner at once attractive and instructive. 
Their use in connection with the regular text-books on 
geography and history will impart a fresh and living 
interest to their lessons. 

American Book Company 

New York ♦ Cincinnati ♦ Chicago 

( 15 ) 


Baldwin’s School Readers 

By James Baldwin 

Editor of “ Harper’s Readers,” Author of “Old Greek Stories,” “Old 
Stories of the East,” etc. 


In method and in subject matter, as well as in artistic 
and mechanical execution, these new readers establish an 
ideal standard, equally well adapted for city and country 
schools. They possess many original and meritorious 
features which are in accord with the most approved 
methods of instruction, and which will commend them to 
the best teachers and the best schools. The illustrations 
are an important feature of the books, and are the work 
of the best artists. They are not merely pictures inserted 
for the purpose of ornament, but are intended to assist 
in making the reading exercises both interesting and 
instructive. 


Sixth Year, 240 pp. 
Seventh Year, 240 pp. 
Eighth Year, 240 pp. 


BALDWIN’S SCHOOL READERS— EIGHT BOOK EDITION 
First Year, 128 pp. 25 cents Fifth Year, 208 pp. 
Second Year, 160 pp. 35 cents 
Third Year, 208 pp. 40 cents 
Fourth Year, 208 pp. 40 cents 

For the convenience of ungraded schools, and 
who may prefer them in such combined form, an 
corresponding to the ordinary five book series of 
readers will be furnished as follows: 

BALDWIN’S SCHOOL READERS— FIVE BOOK EDITION 


40 cents 
45 cents 
45 cents 
45 cents 

for all 
edition 
school 


First Year, 

128 pages 

. 

. 25 cents 

Second Year, 

160 pages 

. . • 

, 35 cents 

Third Year, 

208 pages 

. • . 

. 40 cents 

Combined Fourth and Fifth Years. 

416 pages . 

. 60 cents 

Combined Sixth and Seventh Years. 

480 pages . 

. 65 cents 


Copies of any of the above books -will be sent, prepaid, 
on receipt of the price. 


New York 

(i) 


American Book Company 

♦ Cincinnati ♦ 


Chicago 


The Ideal Language Series 

Steps In English 

By A. C. McLean, A. M., Principal of Luckey Schools, 
Pittsburg; Thomas C. Blaisdell, A. M., Professor of 
English, Fifth Avenue Normal High School, Pittsburg; 
and John Morrow, Supt. of Schools, Allegheny, Pa. 

BOOK I - $0.40 BOOK II - $0.60 


T hese books constitute a distinct innovation in teach- 
ing language in elementary schools, which is at once 
sensible, practical, and modern. They teach the child 
how to express his thoughts in his own language, and do 
not furnish an undue amount of grammar and rules. 
They mark out the work for the teacher in a clearly 
defined manner by telling him what to do and when to 
do it. From the start lessons in writing language are 
employed simultaneously with those in conversation ; and 
picture study, study of literary selections, and letter 
writing are presented at frequent intervals. The lessons 
are of a proper length, well arranged and well graded. 

This series is free from the many faults found in other 
books of a similar nature. The work is not based on an 
antiquated plan, but is particularly suited to modern con- 
ditions. It does not shoot over the heads of pupils, nor 
does it show a marked effort in writing down to the sup- 
posed level of young minds. The books do not contain 
too much technical grammar, nor are they filled with 
sentimental twaddle and gush. 


AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 

NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO 

C77a] 


Webster’s School Dictionaries 

REVISED EDITIONS 


WEBSTER’S SCHOOL DICTIONARIES in their revised form 
constitute a progressive series, carefully graded and especially 
adapted for Primary Schools, Common Schools, High Schools, 
Academies, and private students. These' Dictionaries have all 
been thoroughly revised, entirely reset, and made to conform in all 
essential respects to that great standard authority in English — 
Webster’s International Dictionary. 

WEBSTER’S PRIMARY SCHOOL DICTIONARY . . $0.48 

Containing over 20,000 words and meanings, with over 400 
illustrations. 

WEBSTER’S COMMON vSCHOOL DICTIONARY . . $0.72 

Containing over 25,000 words and meanings, with over 500 
illustrations. 

WEBSTER’S HIGH SCHOOL DICTIONARY . . . $0.98 

Containing about 37,000 words and definitions, and an appendix 
giving a pronouncing vocabulary of Biblical, Classical, Mythologi- 
cal, Historical, and Geographical proper names, with over 800 
illustrations. 

WEBSTER’S ACADEMIC DICTIONARY 

Cloth, $1.50; Indexed, $1.80 
Half Calf, 2.75; Indexed, 8.00 
Abridged directly from the International Dictionary, and giving 
the orthography, pronunciations, definitions, and synonyms of the 
large vocabulary of words in common use, with an appendix con- 
taining various useful tables, with over 800 illustrations. 

SPECIAL EDITIONS 

Webster’s Countinghouse Dictionary . Sheep, Indexed, $2.40 
Webster’s Condensed Dictionary . Cloth, $1.44; Indexed, 1.75 
The Same . . . Half Calf, 2.75; Indexed, 3.00 


Webster’s Handy Dictionary 15 

Webster’s Pocket Dictionary. Cloth 57 

The Same. Roan Flexible 69 

The Same. Roan Tucks 78 

The Same. Morocco, Indexed 90 

Webster’s Practical Dictionary 80 


Copies of any of Webster's Dictionaries will be sent, prepaid, to any 
address on receipt of the price by the Publishers: 

AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 

NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO 

(104) 


Spencers’ 

Practical Writing 

By PLATT R. SPENCER’S SONS 
Books 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6 Per Dozen, 60 Cents 


T his new system of writing has been devised because 
of the distinct and wide-spread reaction from the 
use of vertical writing in the schools. It is thor- 
oughly up-to-date, embodying all the advantages of the 
old and of the new. Each word can be written by one 
continuous movement of the pen. 

The books teach a plain, practical hand, moderate in 
slant, and free from ornamental curves, shade, and mean- 
ingless lines. The stem letters are long enough to be 
clear and unmistakable. The capitals are about two 
spaces in height. In each of the six numbers composing 
this series there are twenty-four copies, and the space for 
practice is about the same as in other series, although 
the number of lines is greater because the books open on 
the long side. 

The copies begin with words and gradually develop 
into sentences. The letters, both large and small, are 
taught systematically. In the first two books the writing 
is somewhat larger than is customary because it is more 
easily learned by young children, while in the succeeding 
books the writing is more nearly the normal size. Books 
One and Two contain many illustrations in outline. 
Each succeeding book presents more work and in greater 
variety. 

The ruling of the books is very simple and will in no 
way unduly confine or hamper the movements of the pen. 
Instruction is afforded showing how the pupil should sit 
at the desk and hold the pen and paper. A series of 
drill movement exercises, thirty-three in number, with 
directions for their use, accompanies each book. 


American Book Company 

I^EW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO 

(39) 


Milne’s Arithmetics 

By william J. MILNE, Ph.D., LL.D. 

President of the New York State Normal College, Albany, N. Y. 


TWO-BOOK SERIES THREE-BOOK SERIES 

Elements of Arithmetic $0.30 Primary Arithmetic . $0.25 

Intermediate Arithmetic . 30 
Standard Arithmetic . .65 Standard Arithmetic . .65 

I T is not enough for pupils to understand arithmetical 
processes; they must be able to use them accurately 
and rapidly. It is evident, therefore, that the best 
text-books in arithmetic are those which give the pupil 
a thorough and practical knowledge of the study, and, 
following this, readiness in applying this knowledge to 
the common affairs of everyday life. 

Milne’s Arithmetics meet all these conditions and 
requirements in a natural, logical, and practical manner. 

In Either a Two-Book or a Three-Book Series. To meet 
the varying needs of teachers these arithmetics are now 
issued in two editions — a two-book series and a three- 
book series. Other books of a similar nature have 
been published from time to time, but none have ever 
attained the extraordinary popularity of Milne’s Arith- 
metics. Their success has been entirely without prece- 
dent. The method employed is inductive for the most 
part, yet it is neither tedious nor redundant. The large 
number and practical character of the problems included, 
and the application of business methods of computation 
in their solution, form noteworthy and valuable features 
of the books. Other important characteristics are their 
admirable arrangement, their use of sound pedagogical 
principles, the absence of all useless matter, their com- 
prehensive character, and their exact statements. No 
other arithmetics are more modern in every respect. 


AMERICAN 

NEW YORK 
[56] 


BOOK COMPANY 

CHICAGO 


CINCINNATI 


RODDY’S GEOGRAPHIES 


Roddy*s Elementary Geography - - Price 50 Cents 
Roddy's Complete Geography - - - - Price $1.00 

By H. JUSTIN RODDY, M.S. 

Department of Geography, First Pennsylvania State Normal School 


THIS SERIES has been prepared to meet a distinct demand for 
new geographies which are thoroughly up to date and adapted for 
general use in ordinary schools rather than for a particular use in a 
highly specialized and organized ideal system. 

They are distinctive in the following important particulars: 

1. An adequate amount of material is included in each book to 
meet the needs of those grades for which it is designed. 

2 . The subject-matter is presented so simply that the pupil can 
readily understand it, and so logically that it can be easily taught by the 
average teacher. 

3. Just enough physiography is included to develop the funda- 
mental relations of geography and to animate and freshen the study 
without overloading it in this direction. 

4. The simplicity of the older methods of teaching this subject is 
combined with just so much of the modern scientific methods of pres- 
entation as is thoroughly adapted to elementary grades. 

5. The physical maps of the grand divisions are drawn to the same 
scale, thus enabling the pupils to form correct concepts of the relative 
size of countries. 

6. The political and more detailed maps are not mere skeletons, 
giving only the names which are required by the text, but are full 
enough to serve all ordinary purposes for reference. In addition, they 
show the principal railroads and canals, the head of navigation on all 
important rivers, and the standard divisions of time. 

7. The illustrations are new and fresh, reproduced mostly from 
photographs collected from all parts of the world with a view to helping 
out and explaining the text and not for mere embellishment. 

8. To secure proper practice in map reading, formal map studies 
or questions have been inserted with each map, directing attention to 
the most important and essential features. 


Correspondence regarding the examination and introduction of 
Roddy's Geographies is cordially invited and will receive prompt attention, 

X 

American Book Company 

New York Cincinnati Chicago 

(sio) _ 


McMaster’s United States Histories 

By JOHN BACH McMASTER 
Professor of American History in the University of Pennsylvania. 


PRIMARY HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. Cloth, .i2mo, 

254 pages. With maps and illustrations .... $0.60 

SCHOOL HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. Half leather, 

i2mo, 519 pages. With maps and illustrations . . 1.00 

This series is marked by many original and superior features which 
will commend it alike to teachers students, and general readers. The 
narratives form a word-picture of the great events and scenes of American 
history, told in such a way as to awaken enthusiasm in the study and 
make an indelible impression on the mind. 

The Primary History contains work for one school year, and gives 
a good general knowledge of so much of our history as every American 
should learn; while for those w'ho are to pursue the study further, 
it will lay a thorough foundation for subsequent work. It is short, and 
leaves unnoticed such questions as are beyond the understanding of 
children; in a simple and interesting style it affords a vigorous narrative 
of events and an accurate portrayal of the daily life and customs of the 
different periods; and it is well proportioned, touching on all matters of 
real importance for the elementary study of the founding and building of 
our country. Our history is grouped about a few central ideas, which, 
are easily comprehended by children. The illustrations, which are 
numerous and attractive, are historically authentic, and show well-known 
scenes and incidents and the progress of civilization. The maps are 
remarkably clear and well executed, and give the location of every 
important place mentioned in the text. 

In the School History from the beginning the attention of the 
student is directed to causes and results, and he is thus encouraged to 
follow the best methods of studying history as a connected growth of 
ideas and institutions, and not a bare compendium of facts and dates. 
Special prominence is given to the social, industrial, and economic 
development of the country, to the domestic life and institutions of the 
people, and to such topics as the growth of inventions, the highways of 
travel and commerce, and the progress of the people in art, science, and 
literature. The numerous maps give vivid impressions of the early 
voyages, explorations, and settlements, of the chief military campaigns, 
of the territorial growth of the country, and of its population at different 
periods, while the pictures on almost every page illustrate different 
phases in the civil and domestic life of the people. 


Copies will be sent, prepaid, on receipt of the price by the Publishers: 

American Book Company 

New York ♦ Cincinnati ♦ Chicacro 

Cii6> 


THE NATURAL 
COURSE IN MUSIC 

By FREDERIC H. RIPLEY and THOMAS TAPPER 


HARMONIC SERIES— Six Books 

This series, the newest of the well-known Natural Music 
Course, is a working course of power-giving quality; it 
affords children an easy mastery over musical symbols; it 
enables them to render appreciatively and agreeably the 
printed page; it promotes a love for music, rather than a 
mere attachment for a few songs ; it develops the auditory 
imagination; and it makes the power to express musieal 
thoughts a familiar possession. From the first lesson to 
the last the child is trained to enjoy pure music, and is 
carefully drilled in each step as it occurs in the books and 
charts. 

NATURAL MUSIC SERIES— Seven Books 

Among the notable characteristics of this series are ade- 
quate prominence given to the element of rhythm, proper 
attention to tone-production, effective treatment of chro- 
matics — an essential but often neglected subject in view 
of its great use in modern music — and abundant dictation 
exercises, which afford a training in self-expression and 
originality, and form an important aid in learning to read 
music. 

SHORT COURSE IN MUSIC— Two Books 

Designed for graded or ungraded schools in which a more 
complete course is either unnecessary or impracticable. 
Particularly adapted to those schools which have no special 
teacher of music. 

ROTE SONG BOOK — (First Steps in Music) 

Contains a carefully prepared series of music lessons for 
beginners, with ample directions and appropriate material 
for use during the first year in school. The songs are 
simple in character and well suited for young children. 

CHARTS — Seven Sets 

These furnish valuable drill exercises supplementary to 
those in the readers, and are intended to be used in con- 
junction with the books. Each new difficulty encountered 
in the latter is first made clear by suitable exercises in the 
charts. 


AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 

[x4o] 


Overton’s Applied Physiology 


By frank OVERTON, A.M., M.D. 

Late House Surgeon in the City Hospital, New York City. 

OVERTON’S APPLIED PHYSIOLOGY— Primary ... 30 cents 
OVERTON’S APPLIED PHYSIOLOGY— Intermediate . . 50 cents 
OVERTON’S APPLIED PHYSIOLOGY— Advanced . . 80 cents 

These books form a complete series for the study of 
physiology in all grades. The Primary Book follows a 
natural order of treatment and presents the elementary 
facts and principles of physiology in so simple a way 
as to bring them within the comprehension of children. 
The Intermediate Book is designed to be a complete 
elementary text-book in itself and an introduction to 
the advanced study of anatomy and physiology. The 
Advanced Physiology is designed to meet the require- 
ments of teachers and schools for a text-book of Physiology 
and Hygiene for Higher Grades, which should combine the 
latest results of study and research in biological, medical, 
and chemical science and the best pedagogical methods of 
science teaching. The book represents a new and radical 
departure from the old-time methods pursued in the 
teaching of physiology. 

The fundamental principle of the series is that the 
study of anatomy and physiology should be the study of 
the cdl^ from the most elementary structure in organic 
life, to its highest and most complex forms in the human 
body. The effects of alcohol and other stimulants and 
narcotics are treated very fully in each book of the series. 

Illustrations and outline diagrams are inserted wherever 
needed to explain the text. 


Copies of Overton's Physiologies will be sent, prepaid, to any address on 
receipt of the price. 

American Book Company 

New York Cincinnati ♦ Chicago 

(150) 


Williamses Choice Literature 

I 

By SHERMAN WILLIAMS, Ph.D. 

8^^ York State hstitute Conductor 


BCX)K I, For Primary Grades $0.22 

BOOK II, For Primary Grades •••••• .25 

BOOK I, For Intermediate Grades * • • « « .28 

BOOK n. For Intermediate Grades .35 

BOOK 4 For Grammar Grades 40 

BOOK n, For Grammar Grades .50 


W ILLIAMS’S CHOICE LITERATURE is designed 
to be used from the beginning of the second or 
the third school year, either as a regular set of 
readers or for supplementary work, as circumstances 
may determine. Unlike many other readers for elemen- 
tary schools, this series has a clearly defined plan with 
a specific aim. Although the books can be used to 
excellent advantage in teaching children how to read, 
the primary purpose of the series is to teach them 
what to read, and to create and foster a taste for good 
literature. It is not intended merely to furnish infor- 
mation. 

The selections are carefully made and graded, mainly 
by the thought and not by the language, and are par- 
ticularly suited to the age and maturity of the pupils 
for whom they are intended. They are all good of 
their kind, and it is believed that the selection of trashy 
matter, or matter beyond the comprehension of the 
pupils, has been avoided. Each volume contains such 
notes and explanations as seem to be necessary, and 
such suggestions as will aid in directing the out-of- 
school reading of the pupils. 


AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 

NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO 
Boston Atlanta Dallas San Francisco 


[9] 


A Complete System of Pedagogy 

IN THREE VOLUMES 
By EMERSON E. WHITE, A.M., LL.D. 


THE ART OF TEACHING. Cloth, 321 pages . . Price, $1.00 

This new work in Pedagogy is a scientific and practical considera- 
tion of teaching as an art. It presents in a lucid manner the fundamental 
principles of teaching, and then applies them in generic and compre- 
hensive methods. The closing chapters discuss in a masterly way the 
teaching of reading, language, arithmetic, geography, and other 
elementary branches. The author also considers most helpfully the 
various problems connected with teaching, including oral instruction, 
book study, class instruction and. management, examinations, promotion 
of pupils, etc. 

ELEMENTS OF PEDAGOGY. Cloth, 336 pages . . Price, $1.00 

This treatise, by unanimous verdict of the teachers' profession, has 
been accepted as the leading standard authority on the subject. From 
its first publication it has met with the greatest favor, and its wide cir- 
culation ever since has been phenomenal. It has been adopted in more 
Normal Schools, Teachers’ Institutes, and State Reading Circles, than 
any other book of its class. This wide circulation and popularity is 
directly attributable to the intrinsic value and merit of the book itself 
and the reputation of its author, who is everywhere recognized as pre- 
eminently qualified to speak or write with authority on educational 
subjects. 

SCHOOL MANAGEMENT. Cloth, 320 pages . , Price, $1.00 

The first part of this work is devoted to school organization and 
discipline, and the second part to moral training. Principles are clearly 
stated and aptly illustrated by examples drawn largely from the author’s 
own wide experience. A clear light is thrown on the most important 
problems in school management. The necessity for moral training, 
which, in the minds of many, also involves religious instruction, will 
make the second part of this book a welcome contribution to pedagogical 
literature. The subject is thoroughly and wisely treated, and the mate- 
rials which are provided for moral lessons will be highly appreciated by 
all teachers who feel the importance of this work. 


Copies senty prepaid, to any address on receipt of the price. 


American Book Company 

New York ♦ Cincinnati i Chicago 

(200) 















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